


from the sea

by twistedroses



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Cursed Killian, F/M, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2019-06-18 01:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15474021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedroses/pseuds/twistedroses
Summary: When Emma becomes sheriff, the pressure of running a department with a dwindling budget becomes nothing but an exercise in frustration. That is, until she finds an unlikely ally in the town treasurer, a man who her kid Henry is convinced is not an ally at all, but rather a villainous enemy. Season 1 AU, Cursed!Killian.





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve always wanted to write my own version of ‘what if Hook was in season 1?’ and so this is the result of that. I’ve had this story on my mind and in the works for years and even though I was hoping to have it totally finished before posting, I’ve been waiting a while already so thought I’d post it now regardless :D
> 
> A bit of background: This takes place in Season 1, roughly after Emma has reunited Hansel and Gretel (or Nicholas and Ava) with their father, but I tweaked things a bit - August has not yet arrived in town and there’s relative lull in Storybrooke for the time being.

It’s only when Emma officially becomes sheriff that she meets him.

She didn’t know Storybrooke even had a town treasurer until maybe a week or two into the job when Regina casually mentioned that _her_ treasurer would be dropping by to make sure Emma understands what funds the sheriff’s department does and does _not_ have access to. Her intent was clear in the dark gleam to Regina’s eyes, the gleam when the mayor is gleefully flaunting her authority in someone’s face: this will be another hurdle Emma will have to deal with while she remains sheriff in Storybrooke.

But even if this treasurer is nothing but another of Regina’s cronies, Emma’s completely fine with dealing with an intermediary – the less she sees of Regina the better.

The woman has been unbearable ever since Emma reunited Ava and Nicholas (the sibling duo who ‘framed’ Henry for stealing from the drugstore) with their estranged father. For whatever reason, her not taking them to Boston infuriated Regina, and she has become so increasingly strict on when she gets to see Henry that Emma is about to scream in frustration.

The main station door opens with the usual creak, heavy footfalls coming her way, Emma swivels around in her chair to greet whoever this town treasurer is.

The man who walks into the main part of the office is handsome enough to make Emma (who likes to pride herself on the fact that she has never once swooned over a man in her life) take a beat. He is astoundingly good looking: bright blue eyes rimmed by dark lashes and messy, mussed black hair that looks at odds with his otherwise pristine image of a town executive in a regal grey suit, complete with file folders held against his chest by his left arm and a briefcase in his right hand.

He looks similarly taken aback by her, eyes wide and mouth parted, but recovers faster than her, shaking his head ever so slightly, face quickly schooling into a polite, querying gaze.

“Sheriff Swan?”

He has an accent too, Emma registers, but English instead of Graham’s Irish. It’s enough of a difference from the general American in Storybrooke to rattle her, and she snaps back to reality, swallowing hard to force the thoughts of Graham from her mind.

“That’d be me,” she says, rising to greet him.

He nods, setting down his briefcase and reaching out his hand to shake hers. “Wes Newport. Storybrooke town treasurer. My apologies for not introducing myself earlier, especially during the election. It was bad form of me, but – well, the mayor deemed it unnecessary.”

Emma doesn’t even try not to roll her eyes; yes, because why would Regina think that a candidate for sheriff had any use of knowledge about the city’s departments?

“Of course she did.”

There is a glimmer of humour in Newport’s eyes, and he releases her hand. “Nevertheless, it is very nice to meet you, Sheriff.”

“Emma is fine,” she says, the term she still associates with someone else stinging. “I’m … I’m still not quite used to the title yet.”

He smiles, a sad look crossing his face. Quietly, he says, “I was very sorry to hear of Sheriff Graham’s passing. He was a good man.”

Throat clenching painfully, Emma looks down to her desk, avoiding his eyes. Her fingers subconsciously rub her wrist where the shoelace of Graham’s boot is wound snugly.

“Did you – did you know him well?” she asks, unable to keep the tightness from her voice. She may not have known him for very long, but still. A man who dies in your arms just moments after you kiss him for the first time ... well, Emma thinks she’s allowed to be a little unhappy about it.

“Not very well, no. Just from city council meetings, and budget discussions. He and I worked in different departments, but his was a face I was always glad to see.”

A quiet silence descends then, but Emma clears her throat after only a few moments. “So, Mr. Newport –”

“Please, call me Wes,” he interjects quickly. “Or even just Newport. Mr. Newport makes me feel at least three hundred years old.”

Emma grins. “Alright, Newport it is then. Those files for me?”

He nods, shifting his arm holding the file folders, and Emma catches notice of his other hand for the first time. It is, peculiarly, in a leather glove, but as Emma stares harder at the stiff edge to it, how he manoeuvres rather awkwardly with it, she realizes it isn’t a hand at all, but rather a prosthetic.

“Sailing accident,” he says quietly, noticing her gaze. Emma looks away, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare–”

He waves it off with his real hand, shrugging. “Don’t fret, love. It can be jarring at first.” He moves away from her to take a seat at one of the desks in front of the jail cells, somewhat awkwardly setting the file folders down. He flips open one of the folders, thumbing through it thoughtfully until he finds the page he is looking for. He looks up, ready to hand it to her, but instead quirks an eyebrow at the sight of her still standing. “Shall we begin?”

Feeling like a total jerk and sure her cheeks are matching the colour of her jacket, Emma pulls up another chair and sits beside Newport. He launches right away into what must be a carefully rehearsed speech. As he talks, explaining this and that, Emma realizes that the budget for the department is much tinier than she was anticipating. Sure, math was never her best subject at school, but even she can see that there is only enough money to cover the bare necessities, and even that is being generous.

“This can’t be all of it,” Emma says, interrupting Newport’s explanation as to the monthly dues. “Graham never could’ve hired me if this was how much he was given. There’s barely enough money for how much _gas_ is per month, let alone anything else.”

Newport tenses, and that answers her question. She can feel the anger starting to boil under her skin, and she has to clench her hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

“Regina cut my budget, didn’t she?”

He still doesn’t answer, and Emma leans back in her seat, blowing air hard out her mouth in frustration.

“She expects me to do my job, but doesn’t even provide me enough money to do it. What the hell is wrong with her?”

“I’ll speak with her,” Newport assures immediately. “I told her reducing your funds would only create strife, but –”

“She is determined to make my job as hard as possible so I’ll just give up and leave.” Emma grits her teeth and rests her head on the back of her chair, glaring angrily up at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t even be surprised.”

“Don’t make it any easier on her,” he says, making Emma glance to him in surprise. “I’ll do what I can to restore your funds, but in the meantime, don’t let her know it bothers you. She’d like that, I think.”

Emma regards him, taken aback. That kind of statement isn’t one she’d expect from one of Regina’s cronies.

“Oh, I won’t,” she says, finally, and she smiles grimly. “I’ll be the best damn sheriff with no money that this town has ever seen.”

Newport chuckles. “That’s the spirit, love. But, I will do my best to talk reason into Regina. What she rationed you isn’t sufficient. There never seemed to be much need for a large budget for the sheriff’s department because, frankly, not much happened in Storybrooke prior to your arrival. Now there seems to be something going on at least every other day.”

His words are an eerie echo of Henry saying that time was starting again now that she was here, and she can’t help but feel a shiver up her spine.

“Trouble magnet, that’s me,” she says lightly.

Newport doesn’t notice her tenseness, and he smiles. “Seems like it. You created quite the workload for me when you took that chainsaw to the mayor’s favourite apple tree; she made me rearrange the entire budget so we could pay for its rehabilitation.” His voice drops to a whisper. “But between the two of us, that tree needed a good trim.”

Now Emma laughs. “Speaking ill of Regina; I like you already.”

Newport smiles back, and shakes his head. “The mayor and I have a … complicated history. I’m hopeful if I ask nicely enough about your funds, she may see sense and allow me to restore them to you, but I can’t make any promises.”

Emma wonders what kind of history the two could have, and can’t help the dark thought that Regina may have her claws in more than one department of Storybrooke, especially when the treasurer is as handsome as he is. She is almost tempted to glance back down to look for a wedding ring but then remembers the prosthetic hand in the glove and feels like a jerk again.

Newport carries on with the budget talk for a few more minutes, Emma getting more and more irritated as the reality of Regina’s budget cuts become more and more apparent. But there is nothing she can do now, and after a while Newport seems to sense that continuing to speak on the topic will only incense Emma more.

Luckily, he is spared from having to continue when a small figure – Henry – rounds the corner from the entrance at lightning speed.

“Emma, I think I know who –” he starts, excitedly, but then freezes at the sight of Newport, skidding rather hilariously to a stop, backpack nearly flying off his shoulders like a projectile. “Oh. Hey.”

“Hey, kid,” Emma says, with a smile.

“Hello, Henry,” Newport says pleasantly, politely ignoring Henry’s response to seeing him. “How was school?”

“Fine,” Henry says, nervously, shuffling slightly to press his back up against the glass wall leading to Emma’s private office.

Emma and Newport exchange a look, and he begins packing away his files. “Well, that’s my business done here, then, Sheriff. If you can write up some areas that you think will be improved by an increased budget, that’d be grand. I’ll talk to the mayor about it too, and let you know what she says.”

“Right. Thanks Newport.”

They both rise, and he shakes her hand again. “It was lovely meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

He smiles at her in parting, and nods at Henry as he passes him. Henry watches him with wide eyes, pressing himself even more against the glass wall as he passes, and the moment the station door swings shut, Henry bounds up to her desk like a firecracker.

“What was _he_ doing here?”

Emma shakes her head with a sigh, gathering up the copies Newport left behind and wandering over to her office. “Nice to see you too, kid.”

Henry ignores her, rustling in his backpack and drawing out the storybook. “Don’t you know who that was?”

At the sight of the book, Emma’s heart sinks. Of course. Another Storybrooke citizen, another fairy tale character. “Henry –”

He slams the book down on the desk she and Newport had been sitting at, flipping through the pages until he finds a particular page. He points dramatically to the man in the illustration.

“Look!”

Emma, suppressing a sigh, drops the papers on her desk, and comes over to see. The picture is a wide shot of a large, old galleon style ship on a bright blue sea, a man in black leather at the helm. The man does indeed resemble Newport, with the black hair and general build, but from the far distance of the shot he also resembles about a hundred other guys Emma has seen in her life.

“And that’s supposed to be Newport?” she asks dubiously.

“Yes, but that’s not his real name,” Henry explains, his voice deliberately patient. “That’s his cursed name. He’s really Captain Hook.”

 _Captain Hook_. Emma shakes her head. Of course, the infamous pirate with a hook for a hand and a fear of crocodiles would make an appearance in Henry’s book. What, the book’s now accepting Disney characters?

“It makes sense, doesn’t it?” Henry says earnestly. “Newport is the city treasurer – pirates love gold. He’s missing a hand, just like Newport, and here –” he flips the page over, to a closer shot of the man in leather, and Emma can see clearly that instead of a left hand the man has a silver hook. “He’s got a hook. I don’t think his real name was _Hook_ , not like that Peter Pan movie, it said earlier what his actual name was, hang on –” Henry flips a couple pages, nearly tearing them in his eagerness, but Emma reaches out a hand to stop his.

“Henry,” she says, trying to be as gentle as possible. She is trying to be supportive of his fantasy world, _she is trying to be supportive of him_ _goddamn it_ , but she can’t let him call this man a pirate because he doesn’t have a left hand. “Just because Newport is missing a hand doesn’t mean that he’s Captain Hook. He’s just an ordinary guy.”

Henry instantly gives her _the look_ , and slides his hand out from under hers. “Nothing is ordinary in this town.”

“Kid –”

“I know you don’t believe me,” Henry interrupts, his voice quiet, but his words loud enough to silence Emma. “But you need to know something about him.”

Emma resists the urge to sigh again, instead asking, as patiently as she can, “What?”

“Mr. Newport is not like Sheriff Graham.”

Emma stomach clenches uncomfortably, and she crosses her arms over her chest. “What do you mean by that?”

“Graham is – _was_ good. He was controlled by Regina, and that’s why he was loyal to her for all the years before you came. But Mr. Newport … he’s not like that. She doesn’t control him like she did Graham. He’s his own person, and, Emma, he’s a villain. He was her ally in the Enchanted Forest. And he’s with her here too.”

Emma stares back at Henry, not sure what to say. Henry shakes his head sadly, pulling the book towards him and putting it back in his bag. “I’ve got to go to my session with Archie. I’ll see you later.”

“Henry, wait –”

But he’s already bounding out the door, and Emma is left standing alone in the middle of the station, hand still outstretched to where he had just been. She drops her arm, turning back to her office, and clenching her palm into a fist at the sight of Newport’s copies on her desk.

Her blood almost boils again at the indignation of Regina cutting her budget, but that is easier to focus on than trying to understand why Henry is so insistent on the storybook stuff. She grits her teeth and gets to work on writing up all the reasons she knows she needs more money for Newport, and when she’s sufficiently had enough, and made sure that every point is absolutely perfect, Emma throws the papers into her locked drawer and heads home.

Despite her best intentions, her mind had wandered during the mundane task, drifting onto the town treasurer and Henry’s words about him. While Newport seemed fine to her, Henry’s insistence that there was more than meets the eye has her reluctantly intrigued and she wants to know more. Even if Henry’s theory about him being a pirate is clearly wrong, the kid does tend to have good instincts about people – Regina, Graham, Mary Margaret. And so, at dinner that night, in a lapse in the conversation with Mary Margaret, she takes her chance.

“I met the town treasurer today.”

“Wes Newport?”

“Yeah. You know him?”

“Not very well,” Mary Margaret admits. “He’s very quiet; likes to stick to himself. He comes to the school meetings sometimes if we have a question, and he’s quite close with Regina from what I know, but that’s it really.”

Emma frowns, her stomach sinking against her will; she really thought she had a pretty good read on Newport and his apparent disregard for the mayor. “What do you mean ‘close with Regina?’ Close as in friends or as ‘ _friends_ ’ –”

Mary Margaret laughs. “Oh, God no, nothing like that. They just work together. I think he’s one of the only people she actually trusts.” A mischievous light appears in her eyes then, and she leans closer to Emma. “Would it bother you if he _was_ involved –”

“No,” Emma says, quickly. “Well, only if it affected Henry, but no. This is work related. Regina cut my budget, and he said he was going to try to get it back for me. I don’t know whether or not to trust him, especially since you say he’s close with her.”

Mary Margaret purses her lips, fork halfway to her mouth. “He’s always seemed honourable to me, Emma. I don’t think his friendship with Regina would get in the way of his job. What makes you suspicious?”

She hesitates for a moment, but then decides to go with the truth. “Henry doesn’t like him. And, you know, he tends to have a good feeling about people in this town. And … I don’t know,” she admits, twirling her fork absently in her pasta. “He seems nice enough, but he _is_ working for Regina. I wouldn’t put it past her to have told him to be nice to me, meanwhile he’s over there telling her everything.”

Mary Margaret’s smile is gentle and sad. “Not everyone is out to get you in trouble.”

Emma shakes her head. “It sure feels like it sometimes.”

That slips out before she means it too, and Emma can almost hear the gears turning in Mary Margaret’s head, trying to piece her fractured story together from the bare bits Emma’s given her over the months they’ve roomed together. Emma clears her throat and gets to her feet, dishes in hand, suddenly not hungry anymore.

“Want to watch a movie?”

She agrees, and hunts around her VHS collection to find a suitable movie. They are all old, the most recent from 1982. After severely criticizing Mary Margaret’s collection and saying they’d have to get more modern ones one day, Emma selects _Grease_ , as it’s one of the only ones she even recognizes.

A few minutes into the movie, the title song just beginning, Mary Margaret sits straight up on the couch and looks over to Emma.

“Oh! Another thing about Newport is that he doesn’t like Mr. Gold.”

Emma snorts, still focused on the screen, and pops a kernel of popcorn into her mouth. “No one likes Gold.”

Mary Margaret shakes her head, frowning. “No, it’s more than that. You and I and the rest of the town _don’t like_ Gold; Newport _hates_ him.”

Emma looks over at that. Newport probably has a lot of business with Gold, the man who owns half the town, and she wouldn’t have expected the two men who controlled Storybrooke’s wealth to so vehemently hate each other; she would’ve actually thought they’d get along.

“Why’s that?”

Mary Margaret shrugs. “Don’t know. For as long as I can remember, they’ve had it in for each other. Cross the street when the other comes by, glare at each other at town meetings, disagree with each other’s ideas for no other reason except to irritate the other.”

Emma hums in thought, picturing all the scenarios as to why Newport could hate the pawnbroker so much. Did they get into it once over who had more money? Argue over town territory?

They lapse into silence again for the rest of the movie, though Emma’s hardly watching. Her mind is churning, trying to figure out this Newport guy, and when the movie’s finished, Emma calls it a night, heading upstairs to her bed.

Her dreams that night are restless, filled with hazy lights of an old tavern and a smiling man in a scarlet waistcoat and blue, blue eyes, with a bright gleam at the end of his left wrist she can’t seem to bring into focus. But, when she awakes the next day, the dream is gone and she is left only with the lingering feeling that she’s forgotten something very important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kudos to you if you get the references to his cursed name! 
> 
> thanks for reading :)


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the comments and kudos! It really means a lot to me, as I've been working on this story for a long time and it's been great to finally get feedback on it. 
> 
> Also, I put a note at the end of this chapter explaining Killian's cursed name :) It's probably a bit more niche than I let on, but some of you guessed some parts right! 
> 
> Enjoy!

A couple of days after her meeting with Newport, Emma heads over to Granny’s for her morning coffee. She’s already received a call from a little old lady complaining that someone keeps stealing her lawn gnomes and is planning to get the coffee to-go when instead, to her great delight, Henry is at one of the little tables. He’s seated by himself, a half-eaten plate of waffles to his left and his storybook propped open to his right.

“Emma!” he exclaims, eagerly waving her over.

It only takes a fraction of a second for Emma to decide that the old woman can wait. “Hey, kid,” she says, sitting down opposite him. “You here on your own?”

He nods. “My mom had to go to work early this morning. Granny’s watching me until my bus gets here.”

Ruby swings past, pouring Emma a cup of coffee before flitting away with hardly a word to her. Granny’s diner is busy this morning, people at every table, a line forming out the door. There’s a cold chill to the air from a storm that drifted in from the Atlantic last night, wafting in every time the door opens again. It seems everyone in Storybrooke is out searching for a hot beverage to warm them up in its wake, and the line had made her hesitate about getting the coffee at all, but now, seated with Henry, she’s glad she didn’t just keep on walking.

“So, what’s the story today?” Emma asks, sipping from her mug and peering down at the book. It’s upside down to her, but it looks like a scene in a dark, stony castle. A figure, features obscured by a black cloak, is exchanging blows with two guards Emma recognizes from other tales as the Evil Queen’s Black Knights.

Henry shrugs, and flips the book shut. “Just doing some fact checking.”

Emma looks at him, torn between amusement and concern, but simply nods at his serious expression. “Okay.”

He leans closer to her over the table and says, in a low voice, “Too many people here for Operation Cobra talk. My mom’s got spies everywhere.”

Emma nods seriously, and takes another drink of her coffee. Of course, she does.

The conversation turns to Henry telling her about his day at school yesterday. She nods along, thinking carefully for the right words to respond with when its her turn to speak. She always finds it a bit challenging to know what to say to Henry, always hovering on the edge of uncomfortable unfamiliarity that comes with each interaction with him. She never thought she’d be seated across from the child she felt growing within her for nine long, lonely months, the child she gave up and never expected to see again, and now here she is ... and she never knows quite what to say.

But at the same time, that unfamiliarity and uncertainty appears to be lessening with each and every moment she spends with him, the words come easier and easier; Emma’s not sure if she feels comforted or terrified by that just yet.

He’s talking about his classes, chattering excitedly about the recent English project. It is clear Henry shines in his English classes, and Mary Margaret has even commented on his proficiency in it. Emma feels a small bubble of pride grow in her chest, hearing him talk so proudly about his recent book report that earned top marks, and she asks, “Is English your favourite subject?”

He nods eagerly. “Yeah, for sure. What was your favourite in school?”

Emma opens her mouth, but then closes it again. It had been pretty hard for her to really focus on school when she’d been younger, having been uprooted and moved between schools as she shuffled from one foster family to the other. She’d tried her hardest, striving to do as good as she possibly could, but still. It had been tough.

“I guess my favourite was science,” she says, finally. When she had stayed in once place long enough to actually get invested in her classes, she’d always loved learning anything science-related and she’d especially excelled at human biology. If things had been different, she might have even considered going into a career in that field. She’d daydreamed about being a doctor one day: treating people, helping people, saving people. “Yeah, science.”

But Henry clearly doesn’t share her fondness for the subject: he makes a face at the mere mention of the word _science_.

“Science is hard,” he says, and his voice rings with dejection.

Emma’s heart sinks a little at his expression. “What do you find hard about it?”

“I don’t know. It’s just … complicated.”

Emma hesitates, the feeling of unfamiliar territory once more flushing over her, but she swallows it down. “Uh – do you need any help with it?”

He glances up at her, looking taken aback. “Really?”

Emma almost backs out of her offer, but she swallows back the fear of the unknown with a quick nod and smile. Henry returns her smile and immediately pulls out a bright green binder from the backpack beside him. He flips it open, undoing the rings, and hands Emma the worksheet. The current unit appears to be basic geology, mostly on ways to differentiate between different types of rocks and minerals. Emma feels like she hasn’t looked at this stuff in a thousand years, but she just smiles positively back at Henry. “Okay, kid. Let’s go through this together, yeah? Tell me about the different types of characteristics of rocks and minerals.”

They continue on for several minutes. Henry is tentative at first with his answers, but grows more confident as they work at it; by the time Emma has moved on from the general characteristics to the specifics of each identifier, Henry is much more assured in his answers. She is quizzing him on the Mohs hardness scale when Granny bustles up to their table, looking frazzled and at her wits’ end.

“Henry, it’s almost 8:15; your bus will be here soon, but I’ve got this huge order for the sailing guys that I need to get to them before they pack up and leave –”

“I’ll walk him out,” Emma volunteers immediately. “You get back to work.”

Granny shoots her a grateful look. “Thanks, Emma. Coffee’s on the house.”  

Henry stuffs his school stuff away, while Emma rises and swipes a paper coffee cup from the edge of the counter, pouring her half-full mug into it. They head out the main doors together, and it is perfect timing too, as the old, rattling school bus is just creaking to a stop down the road as they exit.

Henry yelps and takes off running, backpack nearly flapping up and over his head.

“Oh, okay, bye!” Emma calls as he swivels around the corner of the fence. She jogs forward to watch him take the last few steps towards the bus, and adds, “Have a good day at school!”

“Thanks! Bye, Emma!”

For a single, wild moment that seems to last an eternity, watching Henry clamber aboard, waving merrily at her as he steps on, she imagines this is an ordinary day. An everyday routine. Having breakfast while she helps her son with his homework, and walking him to the bus. Such normal things that she’d never even imagined doing with that small little baby she’d given up so many years ago.

Thoughts of the ‘big things’ had crept into her mind through the years, no matter how hard she’d tried to harden her heart against it. She’d spent countless hours wondering what his first words were, when he would have started walking, what he wore to his first day at school, whether he was nervous or excited or both. But stuff like this? Something so normal? She’d never even given it a thought.

If things had been different, she’d –

She clenches her jaw and stops the thought in its track. No use wondering about that, she thinks firmly, steeling herself against the tightness in her heart as the bus pulls away from the curb, Henry waving from the window.

There’s no way to change what really happened, what her life really is.

And she has to live with that.

Emma stares after the bus until it disappears around the corner, lost in her thoughts. She’s so distracted she doesn’t even notice when someone speaks right beside her.

“Alright there, Swan?”

She jumps, swiveling around to see Wes Newport standing there. He’s dressed in a black pea coat today, the collar popped rather dramatically in a way that makes his appearance even more striking than the first time she’d met him.

“Oh,” Emma says, hoping her voice doesn’t reveal that she was getting emotional over a goddamn school bus. “I’m fine, I just – um – what are you doing here?”

He gestures to Granny’s behind them. “I was going to get a coffee and some breakfast, but the queue inside is just ridiculous. I’ll have to suffer that old machine we have at town hall instead.” His tone is light and jovial, and Emma feels a strange rush of relief that he seems to have no intention of turning the conversation back around on why she was staring longingly after a school bus.

She makes sure of it, saying, “Yeah, it’s super busy in there today. And, uh, not to put any pressure on you just yet, but speaking of town hall … have you talked to Regina yet about my budget?”

“I haven’t,” he confesses. “Friday was full of meetings, and she was already in a foul mood by the time I ran into her at the end of the afternoon. I figured I’d let her cool down over the weekend, and ask her today. I’m just heading into the office right now, actually.” He looks up to the dark, gloomy sky, and frowns. “Hopefully the rain will hold off until I get there.”

Emma raises an eyebrow; town hall is across town, at least a twenty-minute walk. “You’re walking all that way?”

He nods, and his eyes drift out across the street, towards the harbour and the waters of the ocean, turned choppy and grey by the cool weather. “I like walking along the boardwalk.” But then he frowns again. “Although, I’ve left it a little late this morning. Another reason to forgo the coffee, I suppose.”

He waves in departure, heading towards the boardwalk. Emma hesitates for a moment; the address of the little old lady and her lawn gnomes is just across from town hall, and before she can talk herself out of it, calls after him, “I could give you a ride.”

He pauses, turning back to face her, brows rising in surprise. “To town hall? Isn’t that out of your way?”

“I’ve got a call on Apple Avenue to get to, and town hall is right there.”

He looks taken aback for another moment, but then smiles. “That would be great. Thanks.”

Emma leads Newport to her little yellow Bug. Though he is perfectly polite the entire way over to her car, which is still parked a couple blocks down near the loft, and her lie detector doesn’t go off once in their entire conversation, but she can’t help her feeling of distrust and suspicion. Henry’s words of caution still niggling in the back of her mind don’t help either, nor Mary Margaret’s assertion of his nasty relationship with Mr. Gold. She may not believe he’s the living and breathing version of Captain Hook (especially with how he looks; has Henry ever even seen that Disney movie? Young and handsome and with no twirly mustache doesn’t exactly fit the bill of Captain Hook in her mind) but the allies with Regina bit? That’s an actual possibility.

She kind of feels like an idiot for offering him a ride – he is a stranger and one that works for Regina at that – but she figures that in spending a bit more time with him, even if it is only the fifteen or so minute drive, she can get to know him a little bit better and decide whether he’s just another of Regina’s pawns or not. And honestly, she tells herself firmly, she’s just being neighbourly, offering a man a ride so he doesn’t get rained on before the day has even begun. It also doesn’t hurt, she rationalizes again as they turn the final corner to her car, that this particular man is in charge of her department’s budget and endearing herself to him is probably something she should be doing anyways.

When they reach Emma’s car, Newport makes a comment about how its bright colour lights up the streets of Storybrooke, especially on a gloomy day such as this, and it sends an unexpected thrill of delight through Emma.

Okay, so maybe this won’t be too bad.

He tells her about last year’s sailing races as they drive by the harbour, where at least a dozen sailboats are berthed, thick, white sails billowing in the cold Atlantic wind as their sailors work tirelessly to reel them in safely. Emma feels a heavy pang looking at the boats, remembering a particular time when she’d watched similar races in the warm ocean in a small town just outside Tallahassee, waiting and waiting for a man who never showed up. She chances a glance at Newport, hoping he hasn’t noticed that she’s gripping the steering wheel tighter than normal, but he is completely preoccupied, gazing out at the sailboats as if he wished nothing more to be out there himself.

Emma remembers him mentioning that he’d lost his hand during a sailing accident, and feels a twinge of empathy for him. She’s never known quite what to say to someone else who has suffered a tragedy, even though she’s sure she’s one of the world’s leading experts. Talking about anyone else’s personal disasters tends to bring up her own, and those are raw wounds she’s never healed from.

Instead, she settles on a much more neutral topic, or at least attempts to. “You still sail?”

He turns back to her as they round the corner, the harbour and sailboats disappearing behind them, his eyes darker and shuttered. “No. I haven’t in many years.”

Even though she’d angled for ‘no tragedy-talk’, there is a hollow, painful wistfulness in his tone, and they descend into silence for several minutes. Her own thoughts have drifted back into the past in their silence, as she’s sure Newport has too. But, a few minutes he starts chattering again as if nothing had happened, pointing out _Frediano’s Gelato_ , a small ice cream parlor run by a father and his daughter as Emma turns down another avenue. When Emma admits she hasn’t been there yet, he places a hand across his heart as if he is personally offended.

“They have the best spiced pear gelato I’ve ever tasted,” he says, as the car rumbles past. “You wouldn’t even think that would taste good as an ice cream, but it does. They also have one where they mix rum in with cinnamon and chocolate with a sprinkle of sea salt, and trust me, Swan, that is something you have to try. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“Rum,” Emma repeats, laughing. “Rum and ice cream?”

“You think it would be bad, Swan, but it isn’t. It tastes more like cinnamon and chocolate than anything, but the rum adds a little kick.”

“I’ll say,” she says, shaking her head with a chuckle. “I guess I’ll have to add the gelato shop to my rounds when I’m checking for drunk drivers.”

He laughs again. “How about you? What’s your favourite ice cream?”

“Rocky road,” Emma says automatically. “Henry’s favourite place is _Any Given Sundae_ , right near Granny’s. Have you ever tried that place?”

He nods, and they continue exchanging favourite spots for the rest of the drive. Emma hasn’t been in Storybrooke long enough to have tried everywhere, and she’s surprisingly interested to hear about Wes’s preferred places. His favourite fish and chips place is a family owned establishment on the main street called _Dave’s Fish and Chips,_ and he scolds her for not having gotten fish and chips yet – “You live in a seaside town, Swan!” – and he loves the Italian place simply called _Tony’s Restaurant_ across from the Storybrooke cannery, which has Emma joking about _The Lady & The Tramp_. Internally, she’s rolling her eyes – leave it to Storybrooke, fairy tale capital of the world according to Henry, to have a restaurant literally named after an iconic Disney scene.

They lapse into a companionable silence for the last few minutes of the drive, and when Emma pulls to a stop in front of the bright yellow town hall and Newport gathers his briefcase from the floor, a strange sense of disappointment that the drive is over settles onto her.

“Thanks for the ride, Swan,” he says, propping the door open. “I really do appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

He turns to her before he hops out, shaking his head. “I forgot to ask – have you made that list of points for the budget that I can give Regina yet?”

She nods. “It’s at the station though.”

“That’s okay. I’ll try to see if I can convince Regina without them, but if not, I’ll swing by tomorrow morning and fetch them.”

Emma almost points out she could fax him a copy, but Newport is gone before she gets the chance. She watches as he jogs up to the doors and disappears within with another wave of departure.

<>

After a morning filled with meetings and a late lunch date with some new property developers, Regina has been steadily at work for at least an hour and half when a knock on her door interrupts her pace.

“Come in,” she calls, not bothering to keep the irritation from her tone.

The door opens, revealing Wes Newport, briefcase in hand. He’s frowning and looks apprehensive, an unusual expression for him. He’s usually coolly confident, the glimmer of his former life still showing through, and this trepidation intrigues her.

“Wes,” she greets, beckoning him in, pushing the pages of work aside. “How are those tax forms coming along?”

“Fine,” he replies, closing the door firmly behind him, the latch loud in her wide, echoing office. “I’ll have them done by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.” He pauses, lifting his fake hand and scratching absently behind the back of his ear. “I actually came to discuss something else with you, Madam Mayor.”

Her mouth curls into a frown, not liking the tone to his voice. “By all means,” she says, and gestures to the empty seat in front of her desk. “Take a seat.”

He remains standing, bending down to set his briefcase down at his feet, and clasps his hands in front of him, his real one fiddling anxiously with the glove covering his prosthetic. He appears to be having some sort of internal struggle – a side effect of his life here – and he nearly stumbles over his words as he finally spits out, “I informed Sheriff Swan about the budget cuts, and she wasn’t happy.”

Regina’s lips thin into a grimace. _Here it is_. She’d known this was coming, sooner or later, as it always is these days. Sending Emma Swan out of the town limits with the woodcutter’s two brats had failed, and this subtler approach of telling her she wasn’t wanted in town had been her next gamble on getting the woman to leave Storybrooke. It had been just that – a gamble, and she’s not surprised that Emma would fight back.

“Oh?” she says, the single word slipping out in a hiss.

Newport narrows his eyes at her, and his voice is sharper as he says, “I did mention how this would create problems when you first brought up the idea, and I still stand by my thoughts. There is simply not enough money allotted to the sheriff’s department and Em-Sheriff Swan agrees with me. She’s put together some points as to why she thinks it needs restoring, and I’ll have that to you by tomorrow, but I wanted to see if there was any need for that. I still believe a respectable budget for her is of more use to the town than some of the other allocations. It’s not too late for me to make some changes without the sheriff having to come in at all.”

Regina leans back in her chair, surveying Newport, her eyes narrowed. She’d expected Emma to put up a fight, yes, but she hadn’t thought her treasurer would be on _Emma’s_ side.

When she’d cast the curse, she’d kept Captain Hook close to her for the simple reason that he is useful. He had been the only one to succeed where all others had failed: killing her mother in Wonderland where Cora had taken up shop. And even though he was almost entirely focused on his vain search for vengeance, his soul darkened by the impossible task, it hadn’t dampened his resourcefulness - a perfect trait in an ally.

True, he had been of questionable loyalty in their old land, serving only himself and his own demented end; that had been the first thing she’d changed that when casting the curse, redirecting his devotion to the memory of his dead lover into obedience and allegiance to her. His fake memories provide him with a good enough reason for the loyalty, and sure, that irritating honourable streak she’d never even known him to have hasn’t been suffocated out entirely – he still likes to disagree with anything he finds to be ‘bad form’ – but in the end, he always bows to her requests.

But not, apparently, anymore.

Newport is waiting patiently for her to respond, watching her closely as trying to read her mind. She smiles coolly at him, and says, “And where do you think the money will come from? You yourself said at the last meeting that the budget is stretched thin.”

“It is,” he agrees, picking the briefcase up to just set it down on her desk, popping it open to rifle through the papers within, and she glares at him, which he ignores. “But it can still do with some reshuffling. I’ve already drawn up some plans for it, here –”

She snatches it from his grip, nearly ripping the page in half. It’s perfectly balanced in the way he wants it - a couple of local events, especially the bi-monthly Seaside Market, have suffered the worst cuts in order to restore a nearly full budget to the sheriff’s department. And, true enough, it is much more manageable and reasonable than what she had requested at the last meeting. More equally balanced and fair across the board.

Regina _hates_ it.

But Regina is learning from her mistakes when it comes to Emma Swan. She has to be delicate. Cutting the department’s budget was another mistake, fueling Emma’s fire instead of quenching it. And, if Emma has already been able to manipulate Newport into fighting for her on this issue, Regina knows that pushing back against it will only cause more trouble for her with her never-ending Emma Swan Problem.

 _Time to cut my losses_ , she thinks grimly and hands the papers back to Newport. “Fine.”

His mouth drops open in shock. He begins to say an enthusiastic _thank you_ , but she holds up a hand for silence, and he shuts his mouth instantly.

There is still something to be gained from this. First Graham and Henry, and now Newport. With apparently little to no effort, Emma Swan is able to twist the people around Regina into being _hers_ instead. With Graham, it had escalated too far without her knowledge, and she has no intention of letting that happen this time.

Newport is _her_ treasurer.

“It’s up to her, not you. If Ms. Swan can make a case for herself, I’ll consider it.” She glances at her watch. “Tell her to come in for three o’clock.”

Newport quickly agrees, gathering his things and departing under the space of ten seconds. Regina waits a few moments, listening to his footsteps fade before pulling out her own phone and dialing.

“There is something I want your opinion on,” she says once the line has been picked up on the other end. “Be here at ten after three and not a moment later.” And before she even receives a response, she disconnects the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for the name - I think a few of you got the reference of Wes, which is after Westley from The Princess Bride. Newport is more of a niche reference; there was a real English captain named Christopher Newport who is believed to be one of the inspirations for J.M. Barrie's Captain Hook. He reportedly lost a hand in a battle and replaced it with a hook, and there's even accounts of him presenting crocodiles to the king of England at the time! 
> 
> thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter Three

As it turns out, the call from the little old lady is only the beginning of a long day for Emma. She has nearly a dozen calls, ranging from the owner of the Rabbit Hole filing a complaint against some patrons from the previous night who broke the bathroom counter (she doesn’t even want to know) to an argument between two angry fishermen down at the docks that nearly has Emma arresting them both.

Late in the afternoon, Emma finally gets a moment to herself. She grabs some food, on a spur of the moment decision getting it from _Dave’s Fish and Chips_ instead of Granny’s, and settles herself down behind her desk back at the station. She munches on the food (which is, as Wes Newport promised, utterly delicious), and fills out some basic paperwork, letting the routineness of it all dull her mind.

Ten minutes later, Emma still stuffing the last of the fries into her mouth, the phone rings, shrill and demanding. It isn’t the emergency line, thankfully, but still – couldn’t she have a minute to herself?

Through a mouthful of hot potato, she repeats the common mantra she’s already said eleven times today: “Storybrooke Sheriff’s Department, how can I help you?”

“Hey Emma, it’s Wes Newport.”

Emma sits up straighter, swallowing her mouthful of fries, wincing as it scalds her throat. She clears her throat, and says, in a much clearer voice, “Oh, hey. What’s up?”

“I’ve spoken to Mayor Mills about the budget. She isn’t happy, but she’s agreed to meet with you. Are you free at three?”

Emma looks at the clock hanging across the station; its quarter to three already and the drive to the other side of town from here is at least ten minutes.

“At three, huh?” she repeats, getting to her feet and pulling her jacket from the back of the chair. “Of course. It’ll take me a few minutes. If it looks like I’ll be late, distract her, will you?”

“Aye, I’ll try,” he says, a hint of a smile to his tone. “See you soon.”

She sets the phone back down, and retrieves the notes she made a couple days ago about the budget, slamming it harder than necessary as she stomps away. It’s just so like Regina to leave things to the last minute. No doubt when Emma gets there, she’ll make some comment about how if the Sheriff can’t even arrive to meetings on time, what’s the point of increasing the budget? Clearly the Sheriff is incompetent of simple tasks, let alone tasks that a larger budget would allow. Clearly, there needs to be a re-election so someone who is actually capable of the job can do it.

 _Clearly_.

Gritting her teeth, Emma drives quickly over to the town hall. The roads of Storybrooke are empty at this time of day, and, besides, she’s the Sheriff – traffic tends to veer out of her way anyways. She supposes she could turn her sirens and lights on and blaze through the small trickle of traffic that is present, but she resists the urge. Regina has eyes everywhere; there’s no sense giving her more fodder for her ‘Emma is an unfit sheriff’ campaign.

The car squeals to a stop outside town hall, and jumps out, hurrying to the building. Newport is waiting for her inside the main doors and Emma nearly jumps a foot in the air for the second time today at his unexpected appearance, and swears as her heart rate accelerates.

“Sorry,” he says, but there is a glimmer of amusement in his eyes this time. “I don’t mean to keep surprising you.”

She shoots him a half-hearted dirty look, but shakes her head. “It’s fine. Where’s Regina?”

“In her office.”

Newport accompanies Emma up the main stairs towards the mayor’s office, quickly informing her of his conversation with Regina that morning. As they slow their pace when rounding the final turn to the office, he’s saying, “… if you can make your case to her, then we may have a chance at this.”

The use of _we_ echoes oddly in Emma’s mind, but she doesn’t question it, knocking firmly on the office door to announce her presence. She doesn’t wait for an answer, pushing the door wide open and entering the office. This room, with its dramatic black and white décor and lack of any warmth other than a bowl of red apples, always feels cold to Emma, and today is no different.

Regina sits in her high-backed chair, frowning at a stash of papers on her desk, and she doesn’t even glance up as Emma strides up to her desk. Emma clears her throat, hands on her hips, but it is not until Newport, having followed her in, closes the door softly behind him, that Regina finally looks up.

“Ah, Ms. Swan. I hear you have some small concerns about your budget?”

“Yes,” Emma says, trying to keep her voice calm at Regina’s scalding tone. “I looked through it, and it’s not going to be enough money.”

Regina sighs, puckering her lips into a pout. “And why do you say that?”

Emma drops her notes onto Regina’s desk, right on top of what she was just looking at. “I made a budget for the department with what I was given. It’s not nearly enough.”

“Sheriff Humbert managed just fine with what he was allotted,” Regina says, not glancing at the pages. “But, of course, you must feel differently about the way you’d like to handle the department, with all your experience with the law. What was your sentence, again? Eleven months? I’m sure that gave you plenty of knowledge into the inner workings of the justice system.”

Newport inhales sharply from behind her and Emma clenches her hands into tight fists, locking her arms to her side so she doesn’t swing out at Regina. To once _again_ bring up her juvenile record, _sealed_ record, is low, even for this woman.

“Well, Madam Mayor,” she says, her lips tight and hardly moving. “You’ll find that Graham’s budget was nearly twice my size, so of course he could manage. I looked at his records, I don’t need a fulltime deputy like when he hired me–” here, Regina snorts and Emma takes a deep breath to calm herself – “but I do need enough money to keep the department running and Storybrooke safe.”

Regina regards her coolly, her eyes unreadable. “Just where do you think money comes from, Ms. Swan? Even if I were to allow such a thing, Mr. Newport will have to rearrange an entire budget to suit _your_ needs, and I frankly don’t think that’s an appropriate use of his paid time –”

“As I’ve told you, Madam Mayor,” Newport interrupts, irritated, “I’ve already drawn up plans for how it will all work.”

Regina’s lips thin to a line in outrage, her eyes narrowing angrily at Newport.

“Well that solves that problem,” Emma says sweetly, flashing a grin to Newport over her shoulder. “No trouble for him, and there won’t be any trouble for me if I get my money back either.”

Regina’s eyes flicker between Newport and Emma; a shadow crosses her face for a moment, eyes darkening so coldly that it makes goosebumps raise on Emma’s arms. But then the mayor blinks and she looks perfectly normal again, albeit furious and annoyed. With another cross glare at Newport, she finally picks up Emma’s notes, and takes an inordinately long time to look them over, looking more and more glassy-eyed as she goes.

Emma exchanges a look with Newport as Regina reads the papers. His lips are pursed in annoyance too, and upon catching her eye, he shakes his head a little in exasperation.

Regina casts the notes aside then, sighing dramatically and says, as if the words physically pain her, “Fine. You can have your money.”

A cold surge of victory runs through her, cutting through her fury like a knife. Emma smiles as pleasantly as she can back at the mayor. “Thank you.”

And, with nothing else to say, lest she say something to tick the mayor off and revoke her money again, Emma turns to leave, exchanging a triumphant smile with Newport. He makes a move to leave with her, but Regina calls out, “A word, Newport,” and he turns, reluctantly, back to the mayor.

A spring to her step as she leaves, Emma is hardly paying attention as she leaves the office, closing the door and turning around, colliding with a person right in front of her.

“Oh, sorry –”

Emma stops short. Mr. Gold is standing in front of her, a serene smile on his face. He is dressed impeccably as always, leaning on his gilded cane as he looks back at her with slightly amused eyes.

“Oh. Mr. Gold. What are you doing here?”

“The same as you, I gather, Ms. Swan,” he says easily, voice slippery and cool. “A meeting with the mayor.”

Emma nods slowly. “Yeah. Budget business. And you?”

There is a strange twinkle in his eye, and he looks to the closed office door, not answering her question.

“Budget business,” he repeats slowly, drawing out each syllable. Emma narrows her eyes at him, but Mr. Gold’s expression returns to mild indifference. His next words, though, contain nothing but venom. “I see Mr. Newport has still managed to keep his head above water.”

Emma raises an eyebrow, taken aback at the coldness and _hatred_ dripping from his voice, and she crosses her arms over her chest.

“What is _that_ supposed to mean, Gold?”

He chuckles once, making chills run down Emma’s spine, and says, quite pleasantly, “Nothing, nothing at all. It’s just always surprising to me how a man such as that has managed to stay on this side of the law for even a moment, let alone all these years.”

Emma frowns, ready to demand he explain himself, but she doesn’t get the chance to reply before the door to Regina’s office swings open and Newport comes out. He’s rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably, brow dipped into a frown. He glances up, and skids to a complete stop at the sight of Mr. Gold.

“Gold,” he says shortly, his upper lip curling in disgust, eyes darkening. “What are you doing here?”

Mr. Gold’s mouth twists into a dark sneer as well, and he shifts his weight to stare directly at Newport. “Here to visit your boss, Mr. Newport. Always a strange thing to say to you, isn’t it?” he adds, with a chuckle. “ _Your boss_. I know how difficult it is for someone like you to have any allegiance, but I suppose situations ... change. Congratulations on lasting this long.”

Mary Margaret had said they hated each other, but seeing them stand face to face, both looking positively feral, that’s an understatement if she’s ever heard one. With Newport looking like he could wring Gold’s neck at any moment and Gold’s expression as cold as a snake, Emma steps between them before it escalates, her last string of patience worn out.

“Whatever your problem is with each other, knock it off. I’ve already had a long day and I don’t want to add breaking up a fight to it. We clear?”

Newport relaxes slightly, though still tense, and both men remain silent, staring daggers at each other. Finally, Gold breaks the silence, looking away from Newport.

“Of course, Sheriff. You won’t have any trouble from me.”

Without another word, he sweeps past them both, entering Regina’s office. The door swings shut firmly behind him, the loud echo of its click reverberating through the small foyer.

Emma sighs, and turns to Newport. He is staring at the closed door, and he shakes his head in anger, letting out a deep breath.

“My apologies, Swan. That was bad form of me. I just – I’ve never liked that pawnbroker much.”

She wants to press Newport for more information about Gold, but there is still a lingering tension to his stance, and with Gold just a few feet away with Regina, she lets it go – for now.

“So, I guess we did it,” she says, tilting her head back towards the door, hoping to change the subject. “With Regina, I mean.”

He smiles, and the last darkness lingering over him disappears. “Aye, that we did.”

Together, they move away from the office then, in a companionable silence. That had been much easier than anticipated; Emma knows Regina isn’t going to give up on trying to get her out of town, but for now, Emma allows herself to feel the satisfaction of getting another one up on the mayor.

She glances to Newport; she’s still a bit wary of him, but he did just stand up to his unstable and volatile boss for her. A bit of her suspicion softens even as she thinks it, a warmer regard replacing the misgivings.

It is against her better judgement to feel this way, she knows, especially with Henry’s warning about his loyalty being to Regina alone, but she can’t help it. Her lie detector would normally be ringing a mile a minute in a situation like this, but it hasn’t gone off at all with him. And sure, this could all be some giant scheme by Regina to make Emma feel safe enough to divulge information to Wes Newport in the guise of his friendship, but coupled with only positive readings from her lie detector, Emma doesn’t think so.

When they reach the stairs, hoping she’s not prying too much but unable to let the opportunity pass to just have one more confirmation of his intentions, Emma asks, “So what did Regina want?”

Newport sighs, but doesn’t sound annoyed with Emma asking, just with the topic in general. “She’s angry that I didn’t back her up,” he explains, as they make their way down the steps together. “Regina values loyalty and she feels that I wasn’t loyal to her.”

He holds open the door as they reach it, nodding for her to go first. Emma, who was busy trying to force her brain to come up with a response to his statement amidst more evidence he may not be another crony, latches at the opportunity to change the conversation.

“You don’t need to walk me to my car,” she teases. “I think I’ll manage.”

He laughs and gestures for her to go ahead of him with his gloved hand. “I’m leaving as well,” he explains, as they leave the town hall and walk into the warm sunshine outside. “Regina told me to go home; she said she doesn’t even want to see me for the rest of the day, she’s so annoyed.”

Emma smiles back at him, the gratitude deepening, and as they pause together under the fluttering leaves and bright blue sky, she realizes that she isn’t quite ready to see Wes Newport walk away from her just yet.

It’s probably stupid and reckless and the idea that he’s still Regina’s agent burns through her mind, but instead of listening to the screaming voices in her head, instead of bolting to her car and racing back to the safety of the sheriff’s office, Emma tilts her head and smiles. “You walking back?”

His eyebrow tilts up in amusement. “That _was_ the plan.”

Her smile widens. “I guess giving you a ride back is the least I can do,” she says, sighing dramatically. “Come on.”

<>

Regina is seated at her desk when Gold enters the room, her expression sour and cross. He closes the door softly behind him, the clatter of footsteps belonging to Emma and Newport fading as he approaches her desk, each step slow and deliberate.

“You summoned me, Madam Mayor?”

“Yes,” she says, rising from behind her desk to stand opposite him. “I want your opinion. On _that_.”

She jerks her head towards the doorway, but Gold hardly needs the indication; the moment he saw Emma Swan here, he knew what the mayor wanted. She’s becoming increasingly irrational of late, scrambling to find a way to send the Saviour out of Storybrooke before she has a chance to ruin Regina’s curse. And hearing the Saviour mention she was here on _budget business_ ... well, that certainly made things interesting.

It was the first time he’d seen Newport since regaining his memories of his true life; the mere sight of him made his fingers twitch as if to summon his magic, an old habit not lost with the curse. It took considerable effort not to strike down the man where he stood, magic or no, but Gold is a practical man. If Regina is concerned about this new friendship between Newport and Emma Swan, then Gold is all the more interested.

He straightens his back, re-adjusting his grip on his cane, and regards Regina silently. It had been too easy to mould her into his little monster back in the Enchanted Forest, but in her time as the dictator of Storybrooke, she has grown more confident and surer of herself. But now that seems to have shattered, Emma Swan’s presence breaking her confidence, and Gold sees again that young woman so desperate for guidance and advice, for someone to tell her what to do.

Only this time, what he and Regina want are completely different things.

“I think it must be a new record for you,” he says slowly. “One meeting with Emma Swan and you’ve already lost him.”

In an instant, the young, nervous woman is gone, the Evil Queen returned with a flash of her eyes, and she leans forward across the desk, hissing, “I haven’t _lost_ anyone.”

“Except for Sheriff Graham,” Gold replies simply, smiling back at her. “Very unfortunate, a young man like that having a heart attack right out of the blue. Poor man. He didn’t deserve that.”

Regina doesn’t even flinch. “Yes, it was a terrible tragedy that he went out like that.”

Gold smirks, and he steps closer, regarding Regina with a tilted head. “Let me see if I understand this,” he begins slowly. “You did something to the sheriff’s budget, yes?”

She nods, and he shakes his head with a sigh.

“And what exactly were you trying to accomplish with that? To get Ms. Swan to up and leave?”

She doesn’t answer, and that is as good as confirmation as any. He chuckles, and shakes his head, tutting.

“Oh, Regina. You don’t understand her at all.”

“And you do?” she says sharply, scoffing in disbelief. “You know nothing about her.”

“Ah, apparently more than you, my dear mayor. All your attempts to banish Ms. Swan from town have backfired rather stupendously, while _I_ got her elected sheriff, a nice, comfortable position _in_ town. When it comes to Ms. Swan doing what either of us want, I appear to be in the lead.”

“Emma Swan does whatever _she_ wants,” Regina replies sourly. “Not what _you_ want.”

Gold ignores her, shaking his head. “Oh Regina. People of Newport’s breed have never been one to resist a pretty face; I doubt this is any different. Ms. Swan is simply the newest, shiniest trinket in Storybrooke, and you know as well as I do how much our dear treasurer likes shiny things.”

Regina snorts. “How original.”

He ignores her again, pressing on in a cautious, warning tone. “You do not want to overplay your hand, Regina. You have done so already, and yet Ms. Swan is still here. If you make a big fuss about this, you’ll only make it worse. People want what they are not allowed to have. It’d be best to let this ... _friendship_ , if you could even call it that, fizzle out. I doubt the pair will even keep in contact after they part ways today, they are _very_ different people. You made sure of that, at least with our friend Mr. Newport.”

She stares coldly back at him, ignoring the implication of his last sentence. “And if you’re wrong? Then what? We both know this isn’t the first person she’s had this effect on.”

“I’m never wrong, dearie,” he says immediately. “You should know that by now.” She glares at him, unconvinced, but before she can bite back, he continues, “If it will calm your mind, I’ll keep an eye on them.”

Regina narrows her eyes at him. “And why do you want to help me?”

“Does it matter why?”

“Don’t play me for a fool, Gold. You don’t do anything for anyone without something in it for you.”

Gold just smiles. “Leave it to me, Madam Mayor. _Please_.”

He’s not looking at her, but he hears her intake of breath and his smile widens a bit more. One thing not damaged by Emma Swan’s presence, thankfully – the _pleases_ are still in effect.

“Excellent,” he says, turning to look at her now. “So, I take it our business here is completed?”

She’s glaring at him still, but the _please_ has done its work, and she spits out, “Fine. But I want to be kept informed, do you understand me?”

“Of course,” he says quietly. He takes a step closer to her, eyes locking with hers, and for a moment it’s not Regina Mills and Mr. Gold staring back at each other, but the Evil Queen and the Dark One. He smiles, leaning forward on his cane, and continues, “We’ve always worked well together, Regina. Why should this time be any different?”

<> 

Newport is cheery on the way back to the centre of town, and he and Emma keep up an easy back-and-forth for most of the way. As Emma drives down the centre street of Storybrooke, they pass by Mr. Gold’s pawnshop, and Emma’s curiosity about his interaction with Gold piques again.

“So,” she starts, dragging the word out, and Newport looks to her with an amused smile, “What’s up with you and Gold?”

His smile vanishes, and he tenses beside her. He doesn’t answer her immediately, and when he does, his voice is distant, as if he’s trying to remembering something faraway.

“Mr. Gold and I have never seen eye-to-eye. And, a long time ago, our personal lives became entangled in an … unfortunate way, and as a result, I’ve been in his black books ever since. Somewhat deservedly,” he adds, with a self-deprecating smirk, a dark shake of his head. “I wasn’t who I am now.”

Emma chances a glance away from the road to look at him. His prosthetic hand is resting lightly on the right side of his chest, over the breast pocket of his jacket, his eyes looking distant, lost in memories.

He glances over, shifting and dropping his hand to his lap. “Speaking of the past, it wasn’t right of Regina to bring up your past today. That was uncalled for.”

Her hands tighten on the steering wheel, and Emma swallows, turning back to face the road and saying, bitterly, “Well, that’s Regina for you. She knows how to bring up people’s past in the worst moments.”

Newport nods, looking out the front windshield, his eyes faraway again. “That she does.”

They fall into silence, both chewing on their own thoughts for a few minutes. As they approach the end of Main Street, Newport directs her to his apartment, which is only a few blocks from hers as it turns out. The apartment complex is right against the water, separated only by the boardwalk that Newport is so fond of, and she rolls to a stop in front of the building.

“Thanks again, Emma,” Newport says, opening the car door. He pauses in his seat before getting out, and says, with a slight questioning edge to his voice, “I hope to see you around soon.”

Emma hesitates, an instant flood of tangled thoughts shooting through her. On one hand, she can’t shake the lingering thought that he’s Regina’s agent, sent by her to earn her trust. On the other hand, Emma hasn’t sensed anything off about him, hasn’t sensed that he’s lying or trying to manipulate her, and, after all, Emma’s pretty good at knowing when people are lying to her.

So instead of dismissing him with a roll of her eyes, Emma smiles back.

“For sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, leave me a comment with your thoughts, it makes my day to read your comments!


	4. Chapter Four

After getting her budget restored, life descends into a pleasant lull for Emma. Regina is as cross and difficult as ever, her eyes narrowed and suspicious anytime she so much as sees Emma, but for the most part, life is quiet. The sheriff’s department has its usual calls of disturbances and petty crimes but nothing major happens. For the first time in a long time, Emma starts to feel like things are calm and settled – and she likes it.

On a rainy Thursday morning, Emma is seated with Henry at Granny’s for breakfast, killing time with him before he heads off to school. Henry is quiet this morning, frowning over his uneaten pancakes, and only half-listening to her questions about his day ahead.

After another attempt at drawing him out of his shell fails, with the feelings of inadequacy circling her again, Emma says hesitantly, “Are you okay, Henry? You’ve hardly touched your breakfast.”

He shrugs. “I have another meeting with Archie after school. And I like talking to Archie, I just …  I wish he wouldn’t try to tell me that it’s not all true …” Henry trails off, and then sighs, shaking his shoulders as if shaking off a chill. “Never mind. What are you doing today, Emma?”

Emma swirls the spoon in her coffee, her stomach clenching uncomfortably. Henry hasn’t been talking about his book for the last couple of days, ever since she told him that Wes Newport helped her out with Regina. That he helped her out had apparently thrown Henry into a tailspin, as it was a contradiction to his firmly held beliefs about the man and his relationship with his mother. Emma was hoping he would let the book go, or at least start to accept that it is just a story … and yet, here they are.

“Depends on who calls me,” she says, deciding on answering his question instead. “I have a town meeting this afternoon, but nothing else definitive –”

Henry instantly perks up from his pancakes, the most energetic she’s seen him that morning, and he asks eagerly, “Will Mr. Newport be there?”

Emma takes a long sip of her coffee before answering, and she tries to play it cool when she does, hoping he can’t hear the disappointment in her voice because she knows exactly what he is thinking and where he’s going with this.

“Yeah, I’m sure he will. Why?”

Henry smiles knowingly. “He helped you with your budget, right? That’s pretty unusual for him to go against my mom like that. I wonder if he’ll do anything more today.”

Emma sighs; here she is again – not wanting to encourage these beliefs in him, but not wanting to shut him down either.

“Henry –”

“Time to go, Henry!” Granny’s voice from across the diner interrupts her, and Emma swallows down the rest of her words, torn between relief and annoyance. She waves goodbye to Henry as he departs, and after paying, leaves Granny’s herself for work.  

It’s a calm day, and she spends most of her filling out some reports, her mind wandering back to Henry throughout the day. It’s disheartening to think that this storybook is consuming so much of his life, and even worse – Emma doesn’t know what to do about it. Technically, she’s not his mother, not anymore, and therefore this isn’t any of her business. But she can’t help it that this kid has wormed her way into his life now and she’s worried about him.

Later in the afternoon, about half hour before the meeting with the town officials is due to start, a call finally comes in, and Emma pulls herself away from her swirling thoughts to go see what’s going on. At an intersection on Main Street, Mr. Clark, the owner of the Dark Star Pharmacy, and one of the managers of the hardware store on Main Street had crashed their cars into each other. The day has been rainy and cloudy from the get-go, and the near zero visibility from the pouring rainstorm is the most likely culprit for the cause.

Nevertheless, Emma hurries over to the scene in case it is something serious and someone is hurt. But it’s a simple fender-bender and thankfully neither man is hurt. By the time Billy and his tow truck have hauled away the vehicles to his repair shop down the road, it’s nearly 4 pm. The town meeting was set to begin at 3:30, and though she’s already late, Emma is determined to make an appearance; the last thing she needs to do is give Regina anymore fodder about how Emma doesn’t care about Storybrooke by her absence at the meeting.

She drives over and when she arrives, standing outside in the drizzling rain, Emma peers through the glass doors, trying to gauge where they’re at in the meeting. A man she recognizes only by sight as a local storeowner is standing at the podium at the front of the long hall, gesturing to the oldest version of Power Point Emma has ever seen.

Emma eases the door open as quietly as she can, wincing as her wet shoes squeak on the old wooden floor, and slips in. There are a couple open seats on the left-hand side, and she sneaks over to one. The man with the Power Point continues his spiel, flipping the slide to one entitled “The Seaside Market” but before Emma can really get into the meeting, a quiet voice speaks from beside her.

“Ah, Sheriff, there you are.”

Emma turns, and Mr. Gold lowers himself into the empty seat next to hers, his golden hilted cane glinting in the light of the town hall.

“Mr. Gold,” she returns, her skin prickling with unease. “Didn’t make it on time, either?”

He chuckles. “No, no, I’m always on time. This seat just has a better view.”

She narrows her eyes, the feeing of unease spreading into full-fledged goosebumps, and she says, coolly, “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Gold?”

He raises a finger to his lips just as a smattering of polite applause fills the room, the man with the Power Point stepping down.

“Shh, Sheriff; Mr. Newport is up.”

Emma hasn’t seen Wes Newport for several days now, not since she dropped him off at his apartment last week, and she sits up a little straighter as he takes the stage. He looks as pleasant as the day she first met him, and he claps the man on the shoulder as they pass each other with a small smile.

He settles his papers on the podium, and looks out into the crowd, smiling. “Thank you, Mr. Patauger. Now, on to the next order of business, and what I’m sure you’ve all be waiting for. I hope everyone has had a chance to look over the revised budget that I faxed over to you all last week, and I know not everyone is pleased–”

As if on cue, several people in the crowd get to their feet, their loud voices drowning him out, even with the microphone.

“This new budget is a sham, we spent money replacing _apple trees_ instead of providing enough for –”

“– the markets have already been losing customers, but to cut them down even more –”

“– Storybrooke is a _safe_ town, the sheriff’s department doesn’t need –”

Wes Newport bangs his hand on the podium for silence, and it briefly descends, enough for him to say, “Listen, everyone, I understand –” but he is quickly interrupted again.

“You don’t understand, I am not some rich shell like _you_ –”

“– I have my family to think of! Did you even think about that –”

“– you people are all the same, I can’t believe this –”

Mr. Gold chuckles beside her, sounding delighted.  “It appears we may be about to witness a mutiny on Mr. Newport’s ship.”

Emma glares at him, but she can’t help but agree. She hasn’t been to many town hall meetings in her life, but she’s pretty sure that red-faced and furious isn’t the usual composition of the attendants.

“That is enough!” Newport shouts from the front, and the crowd quietens slightly. Newport shakes his head in irritation and continues, his voice forcefully calm, “Thank you. Now, please, listen to me. I know many of you are unhappy, and I understand. But, if any you have a problem with my decisions as to the budget allocations, yelling at me in this format is not going to do anything. If you have a valid concern, I will leave out some forms on this front table before I leave. You can file an official report and I will get back to you all as soon as possible. For now, that is all I can promise you. Understood?”

There is a muted grumbling along the crowd, but then murmurs of assent filter through. Newport sighs and thanks everyone for their understanding again. He continues his speech with talking about some upcoming events – apparently the main issue is something to do with that Seaside Market from the previous presentation – and then updates the townspeople about some financial stuff Emma doesn’t even pretend to understand. When he’s finished, he steps back down from the podium, and Regina, who Emma hadn’t spotted earlier, is up there so quick it’s as if by magic.

“This wraps up our meeting for today,” she says, voice curt and cold. “If you have any more concerns, which I sincerely hope you do not, please contact my secretary. See you all back here next month.”

The crowd rises to their feet, their conversations filling the hall as they depart. A couple of people move to the front to fetch their complaint forms, and through the crowd, Emma spots Newport in deep conversation with Regina. She appears to be lecturing him on something, her mouth moving rapidly, and Newport is listening silently, his stance stiff and jaw tense.

The sight of it irks her and she rises to her feet, ignoring Gold and his smirk still sitting beside her, and moves up towards the front table herself. By the time Emma moves through the chattering crowd, Regina has disappeared and it’s Newport alone up there, shuffling through his briefcase.

Emma hesitates abruptly, a wave of uncertainty flowing through her now that Regina is gone. She’d come up here to – to what? Defend Newport, help him in this argument against Regina? The sight of Regina lecturing him had set her blood boiling, and her instincts to fight had flared automatically. But now that Regina is gone, Emma isn’t sure what to do. She hasn’t spoken to Newport since she dropped him off at his apartment a few days ago, and while there had been an easy comradery between them in that car ride, Emma wonders if that will continue past their brief team effort against Regina’s budget cuts.

After all, Newport _is_ Regina’s town treasurer.

She nearly turns right back around, but before she can, Newport glances up from the front table and catches sight of her.

“Emma! You made it.”

He smiles genuinely at her, and her questions disappear. She walks closer to him, stuffing her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, and says, “A town meeting, are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Newport chuckles. “They are a source of entertainment, I’ll give you that. Especially today –”

A man shoulders his way passed Emma then, making her stumble forward into Newport. He stabilizes her automatically, a firm hand on her arm, and they both turn to glare at the man who’d bumped her.

It’s an older gentleman, who Emma only recognizes as one of the men who’d yelled out during the meeting. He sneers at them, eyes cold and unapologetic, and it’s clear it was no accident he bumped into her.

“Sorry, Sheriff. Didn’t see you there.”

Emma narrows her eyes in return at him, but he ignores her, marching up to the table behind them. Newport had set up a neat pile of forms; the man reaches out and grabs one and, in doing so, knocks half of them off the table, leaving them to scatter across the floor.

“Whoops,” he says mockingly, watching them fall. He shoots Newport another ugly look, as if daring him to say anything. Newport, his eyes flashing in anger, opens his mouth, but Emma beats him to it, stepping forward and grabbing the man by the arm and twisting him to face her.

“Hey,” she barks, and he glares at her. He makes to pull away from her; he is twice her size, towering and built like a linebacker, but Emma is strong and pulls him easily around. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

The man’s eyes darken, and he sprays her with spit as he says, angrily, “I’ve got nothing to say to you, _Sheriff_. You’re the reason my mortgage isn’t gonna be paid on time this month. And to think – I even _voted_ for you.” He shakes his head, disgusted, and shakes his arm roughly. “Now let me go.”

Emma glares back at him, but loosens her grip nevertheless. He wrenches himself away, shoots both her and Newport another angry look, and stomps off. A woman with an equally dark glare meets him at the end of the aisle and they depart the town hall arm-in-arm, slamming the doors behind them.

Newport sighs quietly from behind her, and Emma’s attention turns away from the couple. Newport bends down to gather the strewn papers, and Emma, swallowing her rising temper, the urge to race after the rude man strong and hot, bends down to join him. They rise together when all the papers are gathered, and Emma hands Newport her pile.

“What the hell was all that about?”

Newport shakes his head wearily, and Emma realizes this is nothing new to him. 

“That lovely gentleman is Ron Casolare. He and his wife own a cherry orchard, just on the outer edge of town. They, along with all the others who are angry, are involved with the bimonthly farmer’s market. But with the budget cuts, it’s been reduced to being simply a monthly event and, understandably, none of them are pleased.”

“No kidding,” Emma mutters, glancing back at the shuttered doors. “I didn’t think cherry farmers could get so angry.” She turns back to Newport, who has gathered the rest of the papers into a neat pile and continues, sincerely, “I’m sorry that getting me my budget back has created all this trouble for you.”

He shakes his head. “Oh, no, don’t apologize. This isn’t your fault at all, Swan. They’re angry now, but they’ll get over it. Besides, I’d rather have a functioning sheriff’s department in town and they’ll come to see that too.”

“Still,” Emma says earnestly, realizing just how much he put on the line for her, what with these angry townspeople and whatever Regina had been yelling about at him before too. “Thanks for all your help. I don’t think I’ve even said thanks yet, but – thanks. Really.”

He nods, and then breaks into a smile, a mischievous light appearing in his eyes that looks strangely out of character and yet completely at home within them.

“Well, I _am_ done work for the day … if you really want to thank me, you could come get a coffee with me at Granny’s?”

Emma’s stomach jumps into her throat, and her heartbeat quickens into a stuttering tempo. The very idea makes her walls throw themselves up around herself, encasing her in that hardened shell she’s so used to hiding behind.

“No thanks,” she says automatically, and so fast she thinks she may have imagined it, there is a flash of disappointment in his eyes. Emma swallows, mentally berating herself for being so sharp, and adds, in a gentler voice, “I mean – I just have a lot of work to do. But, uh – thanks for asking.”

“Of course,” Newport says lightly, the disappointment gone from his eyes, but Emma swears she can still hear a trace of it in his voice. “Perhaps another time.”

He turns away from her, tapping the papers awkwardly on the table to align them, his stiff, fake hand more a nuisance than an aid as he puts them into his briefcase. He’s already walking away, approaching a seat where a black rain jacket sits folded over the back, but Emma barely notices his movement, her mind whirling a mile a minute.

_Don’t do it, Emma._

_But this has been a good week._

_Then don’t ruin it now._

_This won’t ruin it. This could make it better._

Unconsciously, her hand flutters up to clutch the swan necklace hanging loose around her neck. The metal is warm from resting against her skin, and she runs her fingers over the edges of the etched swan, and she drops it suddenly as if burned. This is just coffee between friends, a belated celebration of victory over a tyrannical foe, nothing else. That’s it.

Right?

Somewhere, in the depths of her mind, there is a whisper that agrees _no, this is not like before_ and a different whisper that says _this could be better._

Tucking the necklace under her shirt, Emma steps forward and says, before she can change her mind, “Wes?”

He turns around, in the midst of putting his jacket on, an eyebrow raised. “Aye?”

Emma almost backs out again, but stops herself in time. “Actually, I’d love a coffee. I think I’ve worked enough for today already.”

Newport smiles, delight lighting up his blue eyes so they shine like a sunny sea back at her.

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

Emma smiles back, though inside she’s still a jumble. She hopes he can’t tell, but there’s something to his expression that makes her think he does, but thankfully he doesn’t comment on it.

As they get closer to the doors, it’s apparent that rain outside has once again turned torrential, and seizing the chance to draw the attention away from herself, Emma says, “This is just an excuse for a ride back to the centre of town, isn’t it?”

He laughs. “Believe it or not, Swan, I actually drove today. It was raining when I left too, and Regina tends to get irritated with me if I show up to work looking like a drowned cat.”

So when outside, they separate to their respective cars, Emma running down the street to her yellow bug and Newport hurries the other way to an old black convertible parked in the designated spots to the left of the building, its hood already pulled up for protection against the sleeting rain.

As she drives back to Granny’s, dripping wet and alone in her car with nothing but her thoughts, Emma’s hands clutch the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles turning white. There is something too familiar, too intriguing, too _dangerous_ about Wes Newport; the stony façade for protecting herself, the one she perfected so many years ago, has resurfaced at the thoughts that have been bubbling at the edges of her mind, trying to encase her in its protective stone walls.

But her shield has been weakening ever since she arrived in Storybrooke, hell ever since Henry showed up at her door in Boston. There are huge gashes in the mesh that used to keep her so well insulated from any potential pain, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.

When she arrives at Granny’s, Emma sits in her car for a long moment, fighting with herself. Half of her wants to bail on Newport completely, the other half arguing this is nothing to be worried about. It’s just coffee, for god’s sake.

But that cautious, worried part of her almost wins, until she sees Newport’s black convertible pull up to park behind hers, lights winking off as the car’s engine turns off, and she takes a deep breath.

_Relax._ _You’re making this a big deal when it’s nothing._

As it to shut her mind up, Emma opens her car door purposefully, stepping out into the pouring rain. Newport is getting out of his car too, and they rush up to the door together, hands over their heads for protection against the rain.

“Bloody hurricane,” he mutters as they reach Granny’s door, and he nearly wrenches the door off its hinges in his eagerness to get inside the diner.

The place is packed with customers, as it usually is on rainy days in Storybrooke, an umbrella stand near the door pooling water around it, the owners of said umbrellas wrapping their cold hands wrapped around respective hot drinks. There isn’t a free table in sight, and Emma thinks that they’ll each just have to take their coffee to-go instead. And, to her surprise, that makes Emma’s heart sink with disappointment – disappointment she hurriedly tries to squash as soon as she feels it.

“Hopefully a table will free up,” Newport murmurs quietly, seemingly reading Emma’s mind, and she nods in agreement.

“So, what do you want?” she asks, staring at the old board above the window to the kitchen, trying to decide what to order herself. “My treat.”

Newport starts beside her. “Oh, no, Swan. I’ll buy my own, and I’ll get yours too, in fact, after all this was my idea –”

“Oh, so _you_ can buy the coffees, but I can’t?” Emma interrupts, but her voice is teasing. “Relax, Wes. Order what you like, it’s on me. After all, like you said – this is my thanks for getting my budget back.”

He doesn’t look pleased, grumbling something under his breath that she can’t make out, but after a firm glare, he acquiesces and orders a simple black coffee when Ruby gets a spare moment. Emma orders her own cup too – two cream, two sugar – and while Ruby twirls away to fulfill their requests, Newport spots an elderly couple departing their booth. He moves quickly away to grab it for them, while Emma remains at the bar to wait for the coffees.

Ruby returns momentarily with the steaming coffee pot in one hand and two mugs in the other, thumb through each’s handle.

“I didn’t know you knew Wes,” she says casually as she sets the cups down, though there is an edge of something to her voice that makes Emma sigh.

“I don’t really,” she replies, choosing to not engage with what Ruby is trying to get at. “I mean, yeah, I’ve seen him a couple times, but I don’t really know him that well.”

“ _Seen_ him a couple times,” Ruby repeats coyly, pouring the coffee into the mugs and waggling her eyebrows. “What do you mean by ‘ _seen’_ exactly, Emma Swan?”

Emma rolls her eyes, though her stomach does clench at the insinuation.  “Thanks for the coffees, Ruby.”

She leaves the waitress chuckling at the bar behind her and joins Newport at the table, sitting across from him and sliding him the coffee. “One black coffee, as ordered.”

He lifts it in a salute to her before taking a swig. “Cheers, Swan.”

Emma takes her own sip, and asks, as she sets the cup down, “So what’s the big deal with this town market thing? I’ve never seen people get so up-in-arms about something like that before.”

Newport sighs, and scrubs absently at the scruff on his chin. “Well, it’s been a part of the town as long as I can remember. All the farmers from Storybrooke bring their fresh fruit or vegetables to it, and some of the local artisans bring their wares. It’s a great source of income for all of them and because it’s been a part of Storybrooke for so long, a fair number plan their livelihoods around it. And now, with the budget rearrangement, things are looking tighter for a lot of people.”

“And they blame me for it,” Emma says, frowning. “Because I got their money.”

To his credit, he doesn’t try to lie or deny it just to save her feelings, just nods. “Yes, but I stand by what I said earlier – it is more important that Storybrooke has a well-supplied sheriff station. It’s just unfortunate that it had to work out this way for the market in turn.”

“Yeah. Do you think the rearranged budget will help?”

“Maybe,” he says, and sighs. “But let’s not dwell on Storybrooke and her troubles anymore. Tell me, Swan, what did you do before you came to our quaint little town?”

Emma is sure he already knows her whole story from Regina’s exposé on her before the sheriff’s election, but for some reason, the fact that he asks _her_ , instead of just assuming he already knows everything there is to know about her, warms her to him.

But that doesn’t stop her from starting with the hard facts that usually have people raising their eyebrows and judging her, have them slotting her into the category of _rough_ and _hard_ and _tough._

“I was a bail bonds person.”

Newport’s eyebrows do raise, as expected, but he leans forward in interest, admiration in his eyes. “Going after the bad guys, eh, Swan? Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

Emma laughs, a true, genuine laugh. And after that, despite her reservations, conversation with Newport is easy and absorbing and interesting. He tells her about other stuff he does as town treasurer and Emma finds herself even talking about the other odd jobs she’s had over the various places she’s lived in her life. He doesn’t press her on why she’s lived in more cities than she can even remember, and Emma appreciates it. She has no desire to get into what has led to her nomadic, unsettled ways.

They’re swapping stories about their worst co-workers ever (Emma is surprised to hear his isn’t Regina, but rather a man who’d stolen money from the town hall back when he first started working there) when Ruby swings by, slapping the plastic menus down onto the table and making both Emma and Newport jump.

“Dinner menus,” she announces, grinning at their reaction. “Since it’s almost supper, I assume you’re both staying?”

Emma glances at the clock against the wall, and a jolt of surprise runs through her. It’s already past 6pm, and the thought that she was so engrossed in the conversation with Newport that she didn’t even realize how late it had gotten sends all those emotional walls shooting high up into the sky again.

Newport has pulled one of the menus towards himself already, brow furrowed in consideration as he flips through it, but instead of grabbing one for herself, Emma shakes her head and gets to her feet.

“Actually, no, sorry. I’ve got to run.”

Like at the town hall, Emma is sure she sees disappointment appear in Newport’s eyes, but it is gone again all too quickly and he smiles, understanding, at her.

“Of course. I’ll see you around, Swan. Thanks again for the coffee.”

Emma nods, and firmly ignoring Ruby’s pointed gaze, grabs her jacket from the booth and swings it on. She waves once more in departure to Wes – still ignoring Ruby – and walks out into the stormy street, her thoughts whirling away with the wind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, let me know what you thought


	5. Chapter Five

On the Sunday morning following Emma’s coffee outing with Newport, she is awoken by the shrill ringing of the loft’s landline telephone. Emma nearly topples completely out bed at the sound, grunting in surprise. As if it wasn’t loud enough, the piercing sounds of the telephone are soon followed with a sudden clattering of dishes, echoing and crashing throughout the loft.

“Sorry!” Mary Margaret calls from downstairs, her voice breathless as if she’d just run a marathon. “I dropped all the pots and pans.”

“All of them?” Emma mutters darkly, reaching up to her bed to grab her pillow, stuffing it over her face to try to muffle some of the ringing that is still screeching throughout the apartment. “How is that even possible?”

Finally, the phone’s shrill rings cut off, and Emma can hear Mary Margaret talking in hushed tones to whoever is on the other line.

Emma lies there, pillow over her face, and briefly considers hauling herself back into the bed and burrowing her nose back into the warmth of her covers rather than just getting up and on with her day. This Sunday is one of her rare days off, and she’d been looking forward to having the morning to sleep in. But now that she’s awake, there’s no point pretending anymore.

Untwisting herself from the blankets, she rises from the floor and grabs her glasses from beside the clock on her bedside table. She never wears them out anymore, but her eyesight is still so bad that they’re needed to get from the bedroom to the bathroom to put her contacts in without an incident of cracking her knee against a bedpost or completely wiping out down the stairs.

By the time she’s dressed and on her way downstairs, Mary Margaret is off the phone. She meets Emma at the bottom of the stairs, phone still clutched in her hands, an eager shine to her eyes.

“Do you want to come to the farmer’s market with me?” she asks, her voice so quick that her words jumble together.

Emma blinks at her, still half-asleep and incapable of translating the muddled words in her current state. “To what?”

“The farmer’s market,” Mary Margaret repeats, forcing her voice calmer. “It’s just down the road, right behind the cannery. It’s where all the local business set up booths and they’ll sell cute little knickknacks and –”

“I know what a farmer’s market is,” Emma interjects dryly, and opens her mouth to agree to come, but then frowns in thought.

Newport’s words about how the farmers and artisans aren’t pleased with her due to the budget shuffle echo through her mind. Her instinct is to deny Mary Margaret’s request, but as quick as she thinks that, she’s changed her mind. If she wants to go to the damn market, she’s gonna go, and not let some bitter townspeople ruin her day.

“Emma?”

She shakes herself. “Yeah, sure. But I have to shower and have breakfast first.”

“Shower only,” Mary Margaret replies firmly, grabbing her arms and steering her away from the kitchen. “They have fresh scones and fruit and all sorts of things at the market.”

Emma’s eyebrows raise at this very un-Mary Margaret-like behaviour, but she can demand to know what the hell is going on, Mary Margaret pushes her into the bathroom and slams the door shut right on her startled face.

“Be quick!”

Emma blinks at the closed door, before shaking her head and getting to her routine. She showers, puts her contact lenses in, and brushes her teeth. She thinks she’s making pretty good time, and is towelling her hair dry when there is a sudden sharp rapping on the door that nearly makes her jump out of her skin.

“How’s it going, Emma?”

She sighs, and opens the door, showing her roommate her damp hair, the towel still around her shoulders. “I’m almost done, but if you’re in a rush, just go without me. I’ll meet you there.”

“No, no, I’ll wait for you, don’t be silly,” Mary Margaret says quickly, her voice too casual. “Just – you know, hurry up.”

Mary Margaret pads away from the door, her cheeks flushed, and Emma gets dressed again in the same outfit she had put on just a few minutes ago – warm white sweater and dark blue jeans. After drying her hair only briefly with Mary Margaret’s obnoxious old hairdryer, she stares longingly at her curling iron, but has a feeling that Mary Margaret will have a fit if she delays them too long with that. Instead, she quickly braids her still damp hair, and hoping that it not being totally dry won’t come back to bite her in the ass – in her experience, wet hair and chilly weather aren’t the best partners.

When Emma emerges from the bathroom, Mary Margaret is seated at the kitchen bar stool. She’s changed her outfit in the time Emma was occupied, and now sports a looser white blouse, paired with a simple grey skirt, instead of the plain sweatpants and old t-shirt she’d been wearing earlier. Emma raises her eyebrow at her, unused to seeing her get dressed up so nicely on the weekend.

She jumps to her feet as Emma exits the bathroom, swinging a bright green scarf around her neck and rather hilariously hitting herself in the face with the other end.

“Ready? Let’s go.”

She is halfway out the door before Emma has even taken a step further.

“Whoa, what has gotten into you?” she demands, striding to the door and pulling on one of her warmer leather jackets, a deep burgundy one with zippered sleeves, and plopping a knit gray beanie on top of her head, and adds, more to herself than to Mary Margaret, “Seriously, what is the _deal_ with people in Storybrooke and this market?”

“Nothing’s up with me,” Mary Margaret says, her flushed cheeks saying exactly the opposite. “I just don’t want to miss the market.”

Emma is certain that they’re nowhere near the end time for one of these things – it’s only 9:30 after all – but keeps that comment to herself as she and Mary Margaret leave their apartment and make their way down the street to the parking lot next to the cannery.

Emma can hear the sounds of the market far before they can even see it: loud chatter, folk music, the idling engines of cars. When they finally come around the corner of the small hotel that blocks their view of the parking lot, they are greeted with five spacious rows of ten booths each that take up the majority of the paved area. The whole market area is packed, families browsing through the many stalls full of fresh fruit, wooden houseware, and various knickknacks.

“Aren’t you glad I dragged you along for this?” Mary Margaret sighs happily, and she links arms with Emma, tugging her along to the first aisle of vendors.

“I suppose so,” she replies grumpily, tugging at her beanie to pull down lower over her head at the cold sea breeze off the ocean. “I wish you’d let me get some coffee beforehand, but –”

“You drink too much coffee, Emma,” Mary Margaret says brightly. “One morning without will do you some good.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Who are you, my mother?”

Mary Margaret comes to a stop then, and Emma nearly dislocates her elbow at the sudden stop in movement. Muttering a curse, she looks around to see what has stopped her roommate, and then she spots it.

Or rather, _who._

David Nolan, standing innocently beside a flower stand and peering at the bouquet of red roses in front of him.

_Of course._

Immediately, Emma searches for Kathryn Nolan somewhere around him too. But David is alone, his wife nowhere to be seen.

“So, this is why you wanted to come here so badly,” she mutters, and earns herself a sharp elbow in the ribs in response.

“I didn’t even know he’d be here!” Mary Margaret shoots back quickly, but her cheeks are flushed pink, reddening even more as Emma catches her gaze.

Emma snorts, and shakes her head, unsure whether to be amused or saddened (or _worried_ , frankly) about her friend and the married, recovering amnesiac.

“Where are those scones you promised me?” she asks instead, looking at the stalls around them. “I’ll go get one of those while you talk to your _Prince Charming_.”

Mary Margaret ignores her and simply points out a baked goods stand a couple of booths down the current row. Emma, still rolling her eyes so hard she wonders if you can get an eye injury from over rolling, de-tangles herself from Mary Margaret and heads down there while her roommate teleports to David’s side as soon as she’s stepped away.

Pointedly ignoring them behind her, Emma purchases a strawberry scone from the vendor. She’s a grumpy woman, who glares pointedly at Emma’s sheriff badge pinned to her jeans and makes a big fuss about how Emma doesn’t have the exact change to make the $2.47 that the scone costs. It’s almost more trouble than it’s worth, but Emma’s rumbling stomach makes her grit her teeth and shift a bit more in the depths of her wallet until she finds enough change to make it work.

She munches on the scone and strolls along the vendors. The next stand over is a jewellery one, full of pretty little trinkets of the kind she thinks Mary Margaret would like, but the owner has such a nasty expression on her face when Emma approaches that she feels distinctly unwelcome to even browse. The next stations are similar stories, the owners standing aloof and glaring pointedly at her, when Emma reaches the fourth one in a row like that, she’s nearly lost her patience.

She knows they are angry about the budget cuts to the market, but _seriously_? She’s a citizen of Storybrooke now too, and they’re glaring at her for daring to show her face here?

Seriously, what the _hell_ is up with this town and markets?

Taking a breath to calm herself so she doesn’t snap at the vendors and make things worse, Emma skips the rest of the booths in that row, heading to the next aisle over and hoping she’ll see some friendlier faces over there.

And, to her surprise, she spots one.

Standing at a fruit stand half-way down the aisle, examining boxes of peaches and nectarines with a furrowed brown, is Wes Newport. He’s dressed more casually today, his formal suits gone and replaced with dark jeans and a black sweater that makes his dark hair look even more striking. Like her, the owner of the fruit stand is eyeing him coldly and other passing customers take one look at him and then retreat to another stand with irritated expressions.

Well, at least they can be outcasts together.

“Newport!” Emma calls, moving towards him. “Hey, Wes!”

He glances up, and he smiles when he notices her. “Swan,” he calls back in greeting as Emma strides up to join him. “Nice to see you. What are you up to?”

She shakes her head with a small snort, slipping her hands into her back pockets as she comes to a stop in front of Newport. “Apparently coming to the market is a mandatory event when you live in Storybrooke.”

Newport chuckles at her sarcastic tone. “It is something of a big deal.”

“As I can tell.”  

Emma steps in beside Newport, and she joins him in browsing through the rest of the aisle, leaving the fruit stand behind with no purchases when it became clear the owner was in no mood to even address him or Emma. The dirty looks continue as they go down the row, seeming to only increase now that the vendors see Emma and Newport together, but it’s somehow easier to ignore the dark glares with Newport at her side.

They walk nearly the length of two aisles, pausing here and there to browse, chatting pleasantly and laughing easily. The pause in front of one of the booths, which stands out significantly from the others. It’s gorgeous, the sign declaring it _Game of Thorns,_ and the booth is overflowing with roses, daisies, violets, carnations, and other flowers Emma can’t even name, the fragrant and beautiful smell spreading delightfully throughout the surrounding area.

The owner of this booth is more pleasant than any of the others. “Sheriff, Mr. Newport. Glad to see you two here – can I interest you in any flowers this morning?”

He holds out a bouquet of white flowers to Emma, and Emma accepts it from him, so surprised at his warm tone compared to the rest of the market that she doesn’t think twice about taking the bouquet. She sniffs the flowers – sweet buttercups – but she’s hardly had the opportunity to enjoy them or pass them to Newport for a smell when a cold voice speaks from behind them.

“Glad to see you’re still in business, Mr. French. I wasn’t sure, as after all, I haven’t got this month’s rent yet.”

Emma pulls away from the buttercup, scowling, and Newport tenses beside her. Mr. Gold is standing opposite them, leaning on his cane with a serpentine smile, and staring at the man who’d given Emma the flowers.

He swallows deeply, beads of sweat beginning to dot his forehead. “My – my apologies, Mr. Gold. As – as I’ve told you, I’ve paid you what I can, but the markets are down to only once a month now and besides that –”

“That is not my concern,” Gold interrupts coldly, and Emma’s dislike of him escalates at the callous tone to his voice. “The only thing I care about is getting my rent on time, Mr. French, and on that you are sorely delayed.”

“Give the man a break, Gold,” Newport snaps, his hatred sharpening his voice into a cutting tone. “You heard him – he’s paid you what he can already.”

“Did I ask your opinion, Mr. Newport?” Gold asks coolly, finally sliding his eyes over to acknowledge their presence for the first time. He glances at Emma too, and the flowers in her hands, and he smirks, looking back to Newport and then her again. “What pretty flowers you have there, Ms. Swan. Buttercups, are they? They suit you.”

Emma narrows her eyes, and she sets the flowers down, resting her hands on her hips instead, shifting her weight so her badge gleams in the sunlight.

“Do we have a problem here, Gold?”

“Of course not, Sheriff. I was simply dropping by to remind Mr. French of his dues.”

“And he told you he’s paid you what he can,” Emma says flatly. “So perhaps the two of you can come to some sort of agreement in the meantime?”

French nods eagerly, but Gold just glares at them all. He doesn’t speak, but when it’s clear that neither Emma or Newport are leaving, his face twists angrily, and he spits out, “I have nothing to discuss with Mr. Newport here.”

Emma narrows her eyes and braces herself for a fight. She knows Newport well enough to know he’ll hate being spoken to by Gold like that, and he doesn’t disappoint.

“Fine,” he grounds out. “I’ll take my leave then. Good luck, Mr. French; you’ll need it with this slimy bastard.”

Emma winces as Gold’s face flushes with rage, but Newport turns on his heel before the pawnbroker can reply. He nods to Emma as he departs, and Emma turns to face Gold and French, crossing her arms over her chest. So much for her day off and fun morning at the market – back to keeping the peace it is.

<> 

Newport grinds his teeth together as he walks away from Emma, Gold, and Mr. French. He knows Emma is perfectly capable of handling things on her own, that he doesn’t doubt or question, but he’s furious at the mere _presence_ of Gold.  

He continues down the aisle, but doesn’t go too far, loitering by a jewellery stand several stands over to wait for Emma. The stand is chock full of silvery necklaces, earrings, bracelets, and rings. They’re mostly feminine designs, with jewelled pendants and heart-shaped lockets. His gaze falls on an outlying piece of jewellery at the edge of the table, and he peers at it, suddenly taken.

He’s not a jewellery man (a single pierced ear remains as a reminder of his once rebellious phase when he was a younger man), but there’s something about this necklace that makes his gaze linger over it. It’s got two charms, a skull and a sword, strung together on a thick silver chain. The necklace is obviously second hand, the charms worn and chipped in places, and he’s a bit surprised to see it amongst the rest of the pristine jewellery.

“Excuse me,” he says, and the attendant, a younger man with a pierced ear and a thick navy coloured cravat turns to him. “Can you tell me about this necklace?”

The man lumbers over, and nods as he takes in the necklace in Newport’s hand. “Ah, yeah. Looks a bit different than the rest, eh? I actually got it from Gold’s pawnshop.”

Newport’s hand curls into a fist at his side, blood boiling at the man’s name, but the vendor pays no notice.

“Nice, eh? Traded it in for a couple kerchiefs; thought it would add a little spice to the rest of the collection.” The man pauses for a second, eyeing Newport up and down, and says, a bit incredulously, “You interested in it?”

And Newport knows what the man is thinking – what does he, the orderly town treasurer want with a rather gothic and piratical-looking necklace? But something strange has come over him and he knows he cannot leave this booth without the necklace in his possession. Perhaps that it used to be Gold’s possession, but whatever it is, he _has_ to have it.

“I’ll take it.”

The young man looks surprised for another brief moment, but nods quickly, clearly not willing to lose the sale by asking any more questions. He wraps the necklace up in tissue paper, slipping it in a velvet baggie while Newport fishes out his wallet.

“Thanks very much, Mr. Newport,” the man says, bestowing a small smile as Newport nods in turn. “Have a nice day.”

Newport slips the baggie into the back pocket of his jeans as he steps away, resisting the urge to pull out the necklace and slip it on over his head. Shaking his head, a bit unnerved at what’s come over him, he glances over to see how Emma’s getting on, trying to distract himself.

She’s standing with her back to him, hands on her hips, as Gold and French argue in front of her, and Newport can see her irritation in just her stance. His return to her side won’t be welcome now, and he turns back, eyes roving down the rest of the aisle to see where else he can waste some time, when his eyes fall on the beginnings of an altercation brewing down the row.

Mr. Casolare, the man who had strewn his papers about at the town hall meeting, and another local farmer named John Badger, are standing toe-to-toe in the centre of the row, both men’s hands clenched into fists at their sides.

Newport sighs at the sight, glancing behind him once more to Emma. He’d told her he was just there browsing and enjoying the day and, while that’s not a complete lie, there is more to it too. No matter that it’s the weekend, Newport’s duties as Regina’s employee are never done.

Regina never attends these community events herself – ‘peasants’ affairs’, she calls them – and while Sheriff Graham had often been her eyes and ears here, now that he’s gone, the task has fallen to Newport.

Her orders of _‘make sure everything stays civil’_ echoes in his head at seeing Casolare and Badger arguing, and he sighs again. He’s not one for conflict – these days, at least – but he’s been sent here on a specific mission and there’s a form of steel in Regina’s words that make him step forward towards the two men.

“What seems to be the problem here?”

Casolare and Badger tear their eyes from each other to turn to him, and Casolare scowls immediately. Badger doesn’t look pleased either, but he at least doesn’t give Newport a death glare as he instantly starts speaking.

“Casolare here is accusing me of stealing his customers. Which is utterly ridiculous as –”

“It’s true, and you damn well know it,” Casolare snarls back. He looks away from Badger, his rage turning to Newport, and he steps towards him instead. “And, if this was any other day, any other market morning, I’d not care so much. But now because of _you_ –” he jabs his finger angrily into Newport’s chest and a fiery rage erupts from that spot, shooting hotly through Newport’s blood like lightning – “I need all the sales I can get, and if Badger here keeps snatching up all the customers as they walk by just cause he’s closer to the entrance of the aisle, it’s not gonna happen and then –”

“It’s not my fault that my cherries are better than yours,” Badger retorts then, balling his hands into fists. “Yours are half-rotten already, look at them –”

That sets Casolare off, and he lunges forward at Badger with a roar of anger. Newport, with quick reflexes he wasn’t aware he had, jumps forward and grabs Casolare’s collar, stopping him from tackling Badger to the ground.

“Knock it off, Casolare,” he snaps, the hot rage sparked by Casolare’s shove to the chest starting to bubble over now. The feeling of such an unbridled fury coming upon him so quickly startles him, but it’s also a strangely familiar feeling, though one he feels like he hasn’t felt in eons.

“I damn well won’t _knock it off_ –”

“Are you serious, Ron? You’re going to _attack_ me?” Badger demands face white in fear, and he steps back, looking horrified. “Over _cherries_?”

Casolare snarls, face flushing with anger, and tries to lunge out at him again. Newport tugs him back once more, shoving him a bit further away from Badger.

“I said _knock it off_ ,” he growls. “Or you won’t be welcome at the next market. Mayor Mills doesn’t tolerate any sort of –”

Casolare laughs out loud then, spraying Newport’s face with cold spittle, and Newport falls silent in surprise.

“So that’s why you’re really here, eh, Newport? Mayor Mills can’t do her own dirty work? And now that Sheriff Humbert’s dead and the new sheriff won’t do it for her, you’re up?” He shakes his head, and spits onto the ground, barely missing Newport’s shoes. “I always knew you were nothing but her mindless slave.”

 _Slave_.

The word seems to echo around Newport’s head, reverberating and growing louder, twisting into another man’s voice, a darker, crueller voice. A voice that shouts the word at him over and over, emerging as if from memories long buried. And suddenly the rage he’d been trying to quell overwhelms him, rushing through him and boiling his blood, and he snaps.

Casolare has turned back to Badger, arguing again and ignoring Newport totally, but he steps forward and shoves Casolare away from Badger. Casolare stumbles, caught completely off guard, and nearly topples right over as he yelps in surprise. Newport grabs hold of his shirt collar, yanking him upright and closer so that they’re nearly nose-to-nose.

“What the hell is wrong with –”

“You listen to me, Casolare,” Newport snarls, and his voice sounds foreign to even his own ears – rougher, angrier, darker. “I am _no one’s_ slave. If you ever say such a thing to me again, or even _think_ such a thing, you’re going to find out just how cruel I can be of my own accord.”

“Alright, alright, cool it,” Casolare chokes out, eyes widening in alarm. "I didn’t mean to get you so riled up, Newport, Jesus –”

And then, as suddenly as the anger had swelled up, it drains out of Newport in one fell swoop. It’s as if hearing his name has flipped a switch somewhere internally, locking that anger and rage back into whatever cage it’d been contained in, and he’s left cold and empty.

“Sorry,” he says, abruptly releasing Casolare, who stumbles away from him. “I don’t – I don’t know what came over me.”

Casolare just stares back at him, and Badger is lost for words now too. The two men look at each other, their own argument forgotten, and take off without another word towards their respective booths.

Newport watches them skedaddle only superficially; his thoughts are too muddled with shock to really process much else. That reaction he’d had to Casolare’s words … he doesn’t remember ever becoming so angry so quickly ever in his life, ever having felt such deep rage so furiously fast. It alarms him how quickly that anger had come up on him, how easy it had been to just give over to it and to let it course through him, to let it consume him.

_Where the hell had that come from?_

He takes a deep breath, running his hand through his hair, and steps back into the main aisle of the market. Luckily, it seems that none of the other customers had noticed his altercation with the two farmers, or if they have, they’ve looked away again, back to pretending he doesn’t exist.

He’s so out of sorts, staring at the end of the row stand with knit tea cozies on every possible surface and not even seeing them, that he doesn’t even notice when Emma comes up to stand beside him.

“You okay there, Wes?” she asks, her voice curious and cautious. Her business with Gold and French is clearly over, the men nowhere in sight, and her attention is fully on him, eyebrow raised and a peculiar expression on her face.

“Aye,” he says, a moment too late. “I’m fine. Um, how – how did you end up? With Gold and French?”

She narrows her eyes at him, and he knows his attempt to change the subject hasn’t fooled her for a moment. “Oh fine. I think we figured something out, though I think Gold left more pissed than when he got there.” She tilts her head at him. “And you? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

 _Not a ghost_ , he thinks grimly. More like a demon, and more like he saw it within himself.

“No, no. I just ...” he hesitates, not sure how to explain what came over him. “Well, there was some trouble with two of the farmers. They were arguing about customers, and then saw me and got annoyed with the budget cuts, and I lost my temper with them.”

Emma frowns, clearly surprised. “Really?”

He hesitates again, and then shakes his head. “Yeah. I don’t know why. One second Casolare was just talking and then –”

“Casolare?” Emma interrupts, and her eyes immediately search for the man in question over Newport’s shoulder. He looks too, seeing the man fuming at his stand and pointedly not looking anywhere near them. When Newport looks back to Emma, her eyes are narrowed, mouth pinched into a dark scowl. “The man from Town Hall? The one who knocked those papers over?”

He sees easily that Emma’s misread what happened, that somehow Casolare antagonized him like he’d done at Town Hall and that’s why he got angry. And sure, that’s true on a surface level, but _Newport_ himself is the one at fault here. He’s the one who overreacted, who acted like a raging monster. Not Casolare.

But he doesn’t answer, doesn’t correct Emma’s thought, before she’s speaking again, straightening and dropping her hands to her hips.

“This is ridiculous. If you think there will be trouble next time there’s one of these markets, I can come to the next one in uniform. First Gold and French, and now this. This is getting out of hand.”

Newport is hardly listening to her, and it’s not until Emma taps him on the arm that he breaks out of it. She’s frowning at him, and he can tell she must’ve asked him something, something he has no idea about.

“Pardon me?”

Her frown deepens, and she doesn’t remove her hand from his arm. “Are you sure you’re okay, Wes?”

“Yes,” he answers. At her unconvinced expression, he adds, “I’m fine, really.”

Emma nods after a moment, though her brows are still knitted together, and she removes her hand from his arm.

“Okay.”

There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence, their ease of the morning fading as the silence continues. Newport can’t think of what to say, to bring back their earlier camaraderie, feeling rather like he just wants to leave the market, to return to the safety of his flat and figure out what the hell came over him.

His intentions must be easy to read because Emma sighs then, and looks away, rubbing her arms. “Well, I better go find Mary Margaret and make sure she’s doing okay,” she says, and her eyes flicker back to him, a tiny lilt of hopefulness in her tone in her next words. “I guess ... I guess I’ll see you around?”

He nods, and smiles. “Of course, Swan. It was – it was very nice to see you this morning, even amidst all the ... tension.”

She smiles back in return, and then with a wave and another smile, Emma turns and disappears into the crowd with the rest of Storybrooke, and Newport’s alone. Though he’s been lonely for as long as he can remember, somehow, watching Emma walk away makes him feel its sharp hollowness as if he never felt it before and it’s all he can do to scurry away home instead of just running right after her.

<> 

That night, Newport falls into bed still fully dressed. He’d gone into the office after returning home to an empty apartment and loud thoughts, with suddenly no desire to face either. Work had calmed him down, but the sudden rage from the market has spooked him and it lingers at the back of his mind, lurking and prowling.

Luckily doing some work also exhausted him, and by the time he had trudged home, he was so tired, he didn’t even bother changing, asleep on the covers before his head had barely hit the pillow.

Dreams overtake him immediately. They’re restless, occupied mostly by a sneering man named Silver, who screams at him for his slow work, laughs at him for being a drunk, mocks his inability to hold onto any of his money, taunts him with his lack of freedom.

He senses that he’s younger in the dream, not more than a teenager, and in that state, it’s hard to restrain the tears of fury and pain in his eyes at the cruel treatment. He cowers from Silver, feeling afraid of what’s to come, and it’s when the man reaches out to strike him that Newport finally wakes from the dream, awake like a bolt of lightning before the man gets a chance to touch him.

His apartment is quiet in the early hours of the morning, calm and restful. Newport can hear his heartbeat loudly in his ears, and he shakes his head, trying to clear the dream.

A slow worker, a drunk, a gambler ... none of the things that Newport is.

But why had it felt so familiar?

Fair enough, there had been some issue with alcohol in the past, but that was long ago. But Newport has always prided himself on his quick work and, hell, Regina made him treasurer because of how good he is with money. Gambling, laziness, an alcoholic ... they aren’t words he’d used to describe himself, but they settle eerily in his mind, far too familiar.

He shudders, and throws the covers off himself, trying to force away the lingering unease. His clothes are uncomfortable now after hours of sleeping, and he rises to change, flicking on the side lamp as he goes. As he tosses his jeans onto a chair, the pirate necklace he’d already forgotten about tumbles out onto the soft rug, spilling out of its little pouch and gleaming in the dim light.

Goosebumps raise on the back of his neck as he picks it up, the metal cold in his hand. The uneasiness returns, the necklace feeling as familiar as the strange dream had. Spooked, he clenches the necklace into his fist and opens the bedside dresser drawer, tossing it inside. He stares at it for a moment, the skull and sword gleaming, and he slams the drawer shut, unnerved once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The farmer's market idea was inspired by a real farmer's market that I went to in Steveston, the real town of Storybrooke, and so I had to put into this fic too. I really loved writing this chapter, and I hope you enjoyed it too! Let me know your thoughts :)


	6. Chapter Six

Early Sunday morning, Emma and Mary Margaret venture into the crisp morning air of Storybrooke, walking down the main street towards the lone local bookstore. Emma is on a mission to find some science books that could help Henry (and her) with his homework. The internet is spotty at best in this town; Emma sometimes feel like she’s stepped back in time to the days when the internet was just starting up, and she’s getting sick of having to wait twenty minutes for Google to load each time she needs to look something up for Henry.

They walk past the shuttered library, which would have been an ideal starting place but as it has been closed up for as long as Mary Margaret can remember, they head onto one of the back streets to a bookstore called _Enchanted Books._ A copper bell above the door announces their entrance into the small, brightly lit shop. The place is crowded with shelves, rows of books extending far down the narrow confines of the building. The shop is deserted this early, save for two men, brothers by the looks of them, both with sandy brown hair and brilliant green eyes. One of the men is seated behind the counter, counting bills, while the other is organizing a display of books just inside the entrance, and they both smile pleasantly at Emma and Mary Margaret as they enter.

Mary Margaret slips by Emma, off to the fiction books at the back of the store, while Emma asks the man behind the counter, who introduces himself as Jake, where the science section is. He gestures over the other man – William, he greets as he shakes Emma’s hand – and William leads her to a bookcase against the opposite wall.

The selection is meagre, and though Emma’s heart sinks, she nods in thanks as William returns to the front of the store. Her disappointment as she looks closer; the science books reside on only two half-full shelves and everything there is terribly out of date. The latest book is from the early 80s, and Emma scowls and huffs out a breath in frustration.

This won’t be helpful for Henry’s homework, and Emma glances around to see what else she can find, so at least this isn’t a total loss. The section over from science is the kids’ section, and Emma abandons the pathetic science books to see if there’s anything Henry may like there. Though he’s obsessed with his storybook, she’s seen some comic books around too and maybe there is a new one he’d like.

She finds the comic books easily, but then she frowns at the numerous copies, at the many brightly coloured covers and dramatic superheroes. She doesn’t know which ones Henry already has, let alone which series he likes best, and her heart clenches at the reminder of just how little she really knows about her son.

Unhappy and frustrated, Emma turns around to search for Mary Margaret so they can get the hell out of there. She can’t see her roommate over the shelves, and as she’s moving through the shelves to find her, a thick, leather bound book catches her eye.  It’s a thick tome, heavy and dusty with age, the title _Grimms’ Fairy Tales_ in etched in gold flecked ink.

Emma smiles at faint memories that resurface at the sight of it. These had been the types of fairy tales _she’d_ read as a child, unlike Henry’s twisted versions where Snow White is a bandit on the run and Rumpelstiltskin is Cinderella’s fairy godmother. These are the stories she remembers – stories of Rapunzel, Hansel and Gretel, and the Golden Goose. Alone and unwanted in the foster system, tales of princesses saved by shining knights, tales of seeking true love, of being reunited with real, loving families; they’d been the perfect stories for an unloved little girl.

Emma flips the book open to a random page, curious to see if it’s like her old copy. The story is, of course, about Snow White, the illustrated page with a woman sighing over a wishing well, and Emma rolls her eyes; typical. With Henry’s insistence that she’s literally the daughter of said Snow White, Emma doesn’t need any more of that story in her life, and she shuts the book again with a huff.

The little bell tinkles above the door again. To her surprise, Wes Newport steps into the small bookshop, a dark form silhouetted against the bright sunlight outside. He doesn’t notice her, hidden as she is in the children’s books, and he murmurs a quiet greeting to Jake and William.

He looks like he always does; polite and put-together, no sign of the dark edge to his face that Emma witnessed the other day at the farmer’s market. She felt like they were a team when they were there at first, the two outsiders against the rest of the town, but when she’d returned from dealing with Gold and French, Newport’s mood had darkened so quickly, it was like he was a different person standing there in front of her.

She sets the book of fairy tales down, and heads towards him, curious to see if that side of him is there again despite herself. He doesn’t notice her, engrossed in the book display at the front, flipping through an old copy of _Treasure Island_ with a slight frown on his face, eyes narrowed.

“Hey, Wes,” Emma greets, and he looks up, startled. But quickly his frown disappears, and he smiles, eyes lighting up in delight. Any edge of his anger from before is gone, as if it never happened in the first place.

“Swan, what a pleasant surprise. What are you doing here?”

She tilts her head back towards the science section. “I was looking for a book for Henry.” She glances over to the brothers, but both William and Jake are occupied with Mary Margaret at the counter, and she says, in a much lower voice, “But the selection here isn’t the greatest.”

Newport chuckles conspiratorially. “Aye, it is a bit outdated.”

“Hi, Wes! It’s nice to see you here.”

Emma turns around and comes face to face with Mary Margaret. Her roommate has a decorative bag entitled _Enchanted Books,_ heavy with her purchases, slung over her shoulder.

Newport smiles in greeting, and Emma nods at her bag. “I see you were more successful than me.”

“I got some new books for the classroom,” she replies, shifting the bag on her hip. “But no luck for you, Emma?”

“No,” she replies, with a sigh. “Slow Google it is.”

“Ah, well,” Mary Margaret says, with a wry smile. “At least we can get coffee now. Ready to go?”

Newport has looked back to his book, frowning again at it, and Emma glances to him to say goodbye, but she changes her mind in a split second.

“Want to join us? We’re going to Granny’s for breakfast.”

Both Mary Margaret and Newport stare at her, surprised. Emma herself is a bit taken aback at her offer, but smiles through it, and he nods.

“That would be lovely.”

He sets the copy of _Treasure Island_ down and the three of them leave _Enchanted Books_ with a wave to William and Jake as they go. Outside, they’ve only made it a few steps before Mary Margaret skids to stop.

“Oh, wait,” she says, starting down at her watch with a strange look on her face. “I said I’d go over and help Ashley with her baby for a few hours later this morning. You two go on without me.”

Emma’s eyes narrow; that’s a lie if Emma ever heard one, and she glares at her roommate. Mary Margaret has never done that before, and if this is some twisted scheme to ditch and go off to see David Nolan again …

“Are you sure? I thought you wanted breakfast.”

Mary Margaret waves that away. “I’ll be fine. I promised Ashley, after all. Besides, I think you’ll have more fun without me.”

The strange look on her face makes more sense now, and Emma glances to her sharply. Mary Margaret isn’t ditching them so she can go see David – she’s ditching them out of some strange inkling that Emma wants to have coffee with Newport without her.

Emma is going to kill her.

“See you at home, Emma and it was nice to see you, Wes. Have fun!”

Mary Margaret waves to them, before heading off in the opposite direction, book bag swinging over her shoulder. Emma glares at her retreating back, and then turns back to Newport with a sigh. He’s silent, watching her with guarded eyes, as if he expects her to bolt after Mary Margaret.

But Emma smiles brightly instead, biting down her annoyance at Mary Margaret, and says, “Shall we?”

Newport smiles, and Emma smiles back. Mary Margaret can think whatever she like, but as far as Emma’s concerned, this is just coffee between friends.

(And that’s what she’s gonna keep telling herself.)

The bookstore is only a block away from Granny’s. Emma half-expected the conversation on the way over to the little café to be stilted after Mary Margaret’s departure, but it’s anything but. Newport is insistent that it’s his turn to buy their coffee, but Emma insists right back that he doesn’t have to get hers, that she bought his last time as a thanks. By the time they arrive at Granny’s, they’ve come to no agreement.

As they enter, bell tinkling overhead to announce their entrance like at the bookstore, Newport darts towards the bar to order their drinks. Emma moves to join him, ready to butt in and pay for her own drink, but before she can, she catches sight of a familiar head of brown hair at the back booth, bent over his storybook, and she makes for the booth instead; fine, Newport can pay.

“Hey kid,” Emma greets when she makes it to the booth, ruffling Henry’s hair and taking a seat next to him. “What are you up to?”

He smiles widely at her, eyes alight. “Emma! I’m glad you’re here, I have something to tell you. Remember when Mr. Newport was in your office a couple weeks ago? Well I’ve been doing some research, and I was re-reading his story and you’ll never guess what I’ve found.”

Her heart sinks; she chances a glance behind her, but Newport is still chatting with Ruby at the counter, his back to their booth.

“Henry,” she says, gently, looking back to face him. “I thought we talked about this.”

Henry continues as if she hadn’t spoken at all. “Last week we had a project about the fishing industry and we went to the harbour for a field trip. The Maritime Museum is right beside where we were, and they’re having this exhibit on pirates right now. We didn’t go inside, but they have a huge, real life pirate ship moored outside, and at first I didn’t think anything other than ‘cool, a pirate ship’, but I was looking through my book again, and you’ll never guess what the ship in the book looks like –”

Then, making Henry’s mile-a-word sentence skid to a stop, Newport arrives at their booth. Instead of just two drinks, he’s got three, in one of those Styrofoam cup holders so he can manage. He slides one of the drinks to Emma after setting the tray down, and then one to Henry too, before taking a seat on the opposite bench.

“Hi Henry. I got you a hot chocolate, I hope that’s okay.”

Henry stares at him, eyes wide at Newport’s presence, let alone having gotten him a drink. Emma herself is a little taken aback by the show of thoughtfulness, but she recovers quicker than Henry, elbowing him lightly.

“Oh, yeah, thanks, I love hot chocolate.”

Newport smiles lightly. “So, how’s school going?” he asks, sipping his drink.

Henry surveys him for a few moments, still looking wary, before he answers, more coolly than Emma is used to hearing from him, “Fine. Just school, nothing exciting.”

“Oh no? Your mum was telling me that there was a school science fair a couple of weeks ago. How did that go?”

Henry narrows his eyes, and he eyes the hot chocolate suspiciously, before turning the look to Newport. “My mom told you that?”

Newport glances once to Emma who just shrugs back, confused herself at what Henry is getting at.

“Yes, uh, she mentioned it to me at our last meeting as she had to leave quickly.”

Henry’s eyebrows raise a little, and he glances quickly down at his open storybook. Emma looks down too, and, upon seeing what page it is open to, instantly has to repress the urge to roll her eyes.

 _Seriously_ , Henry?

Newport looks back and forth between Emma and Henry, but before he can say anything, Henry announces, “I’m just gonna get some cinnamon for this, I’ll be right back,” and side checks Emma out of the way.

She settles back down, sliding over to leave room for Henry’s return. “That kid is stronger than he looks,” she mutters darkly, rubbing her sore hip, reaching across the table for the sugar and bowl of creamer, dumping two creamers and a couple spoonfuls into her coffee.

Newport isn’t listening to her, his gaze over Emma’s shoulder on Henry as he bounces up to the bar, frowning. “Did I say something wrong?”

Emma sighs, and glares down at the storybook. The image is of the character Henry has claimed to be Newport, standing nearly nose to nose with the dark-haired woman Emma has also seen many times in the book, the one Henry says is Regina. The picture, knowing what she knows about Henry’s beliefs, disturbs her, and she shuts the book with more force than necessary.

“It’s this book,” she says, angrily.

“What?” His eyes travel to the book, and then back up to her, an eyebrow raising in confusion. “The book?”

She lets out a huff and shakes her head in frustration, but she can’t explain further, as Henry is on his way back, sliding back into the booth beside her. He reaches across her for the book, opening it back up.

“So, Mr. Newport,” Henry begins, flipping through the book until he finds the page with the dark-haired man on the ship he’d shown her at the sheriff’s station. “Do you like sailing?”

Emma grits her teeth, but there is a glitter of interest in Newport’s eye as he leans forward to look at Henry’s book.

“I do enjoy it, aye. Can’t say I’ve ever been sailing on a ship like that though,” he adds, a curious tone to his voice that Emma can’t place. “She’s a real beauty.”

Henry nods knowingly, as if he expected that answer. “I went down to the docks earlier. There’s actually a ship like this here at the Maritime Museum. It’s a pirate ship,” he adds, and Emma suppresses a groan.

“Pirates,” Newport echoes, a bit amused. “I didn’t realize there had been any pirates around this part of Maine.”

Henry looks pointedly at him for a long moment – long enough that Emma has to stifle another sigh – but then he simply shrugs. “This ship is ... not from around here.”

“Where is it from?”

The question is innocent, but Emma tenses. To Henry, the answer is obvious: the Enchanted Forest, where they were all really from before Regina the Evil Queen cursed them here to the Land Without Magic, _duh_.

But, to her relief, Henry plays it off. “I’m not sure.” He turns to Emma, and says, “We should go to the exhibit and take a look.”

She’s hesitant to agree to this, knowing Henry’s beliefs, but she wonders if seeing the ship up close, seeing its true history could change his mind. “Yeah, we could do that. You want to go today?”

Henry shakes his head. “No, my mom said I have to be home at ten. What about tomorrow morning, around 10?” That is fine with Emma, so she nods, and Henry looks to Newport. “Is that good with you?”

Newport coughs into his coffee, nearly choking. “Me – me?”

“Well, don’t you want to see the ship?”

Newport gapes at Henry, and then continues, “I – er, sure. I suppose, if that’s alright with your mother –”

“It will be,” Henry says cheerily. “It’s going to a museum; how can a parent not be okay with their kid doing that?”

Granny approaches their booth then, frowning. “Henry, your mother called,” she says, lip curling slightly at the mention of Regina. “She said you were supposed to be home ten minutes ago.”

Henry groans, and Emma offers quickly to drive him home, but Henry shakes his head. “No, no, that’s okay. If my mom finds out the reason I’m late is because I was with you, she’ll never let me go to the museum tomorrow. I’ll be fine walking.”

He gathers up his coat and shoulders his backpack. He is about to turn and go when Emma spots the open storybook on the table, and calls out to him. “Wait, kid – your book.”

Henry pauses, eyes flickering briefly to Newport and then back to Emma. “Why don’t you keep it, Emma? I’ll get it from you another time.”

She opens her mouth to disagree, but Henry, with a knowing glint to his eye, is already moving away. “Thanks for the hot chocolate, Mr. Newport! See you tomorrow!”

The bell tinkles over the door as he bounds out, and Emma turns back around from watching him leave, not surprised to see Newport watching her with narrowed eyes.

“What was that all about?”

She glares at the book again in response, and Newport notices. His eyebrows pinch together in question and he taps the book with his gloved hand. “What is this?”

No way of avoiding it now, Emma thinks, and she takes a deep breath. “It’s just a book of fairy tales. But … well – and don’t laugh, okay?”

“Of course not.”

Emma hesitates, but then it all comes tumbling out. “Henry – Henry has been having some trouble lately. I think – well, long story short, he thinks everyone in Storybrooke is a character from this book. He thinks Mary Margaret is Snow White, his mom is the Evil Queen who tried to kill Snow White with an apple, his therapist is Jiminy Cricket, on and on … basically, if you’ve ever lived in Storybrooke for any amount of time, you’re a fairy tale character.” She pauses, and adds, sadly, “I think it’s a coping mechanism. He’s – he’s a pretty unhappy kid.”

She glances to Newport, fully expecting him to have ignored her warning about laughter and be laughing that Henry is absolutely bonkers, but instead he is frowning.

“Poor lad. I didn’t know things had gotten this bad for him.” He gestures to the man on the ship, tapping the picture. “Me, I take it? Who is he – who am _I_ supposed to be?”

Emma hesitates. How are you supposed to tell a man who lost his hand in a horrific accident that your kid thinks he’s the real-life version of a one handed man who terrorizes and torments children? “Uh … I don’t know if you’ll like it …”

“Try me, love.”

She sighs, and braces herself for the inevitable. “He thinks you’re Captain Hook.”

He stares back at her, blinking several times. “From _Peter Pan_? Is that even a fairy tale?”

“To the book it is.” She pulls it from his grasp to flip through a couple of pages, pointing them out to him as she goes. “The stories are all different, too. It’s not like Disney; they’re all interwoven. See here? Snow White and Cinderella are best friends, the Evil Queen tried to force Hansel and Gretel to live with her after tricking them to go into the candy house, then earlier, it says Red Riding Hood herself is the Big Bad Wolf …” Emma trails off when she looks up and catches Newport’s wide-eyed expression. “It’s quite something,” she adds, lamely.

He tugs the book back towards him. “Captain Hook, eh? I suppose if he’s trying to fit every character in here to a person in Storybrooke, then my missing a hand and being in charge of the town’s money fits. Pirate, right?”

She blinks back at him, at his casual tone. “You’re – you’re not offended?”

He shakes his head, with a wry chuckle. “Oh no. I’ve been called much worse.” He pauses for a moment, eyes far away, but then he grins, shaking his head. “And I do like sailing, but me a pirate? Imagine that. And having a hook for a hand … I gather that’d be quite the bother.” He flips the pages several times until he comes back upon the page Henry had been showing him, of the man at the ship, ducking his head back to examine it closer.

Emma breathes out a sigh of relief she didn’t even know she’d been holding. He could so easily have scoffed at her, could have rolled his eyes and made a nasty comment about Henry and his ‘delusions’, but instead he seems simply curious, if not saddened for Henry, by it all.

But even as she thinks that he’s just interested, his eyes darken, mouth turning down in a frown.

“I take it Captain Hook in this story is still a villain?”

Emma nods nervously. “Yeah.”

Newport leans back, still frowning. “That explains why he never seems to warm to me. He thinks I’m a villain.”

“I wouldn’t take it personally,” Emma replies, forcing a light edge to her voice. “He thinks anyone involved with Regina is a villain.”

“ _Involved_ with Regina?” Newport repeats sharply, glancing at her swiftly.

Emma can feel her cheeks turning red, and she quickly adds, “I mean, _working_ with her. You’re the treasurer, she’s the mayor, that’s all I think he means …”

“Oh,” Newport says, his own cheeks brightening into a light pink now. “Aye, I see.”

Emma can’t help herself. After being blindsided with Graham’s relationship with Regina, she just needs to know what she’s dealing with here; she can see Mary Margaret preening in her head.

“You’re not involved with her, are you?”

“No,” he says, almost instantly. “No. Regina and I … she may have helped me out in the past, but no. We just work together.”

Emma nods mutely, hoping he can’t read her relief on her face. Newport looks away from her then, and gestures to the book.

“And you? Who does Henry think you are?”

She thinks of all Henry has told her – _you’re in this book, you’re the only one that can save them all, you’re the saviour_ – but shakes her head. “I’m not in the book.”

“I suppose you haven’t been in Storybrooke long enough, aye?”

“Something like that,” she responds quietly.

Emma’s phone buzzes against her leg, and she pulls it out of her pocket. It’s a text from Mary Margaret, asking her if she’s coming home for lunch or if she’s going to stay there with Newport. Emma has no desire to have Ruby saunter by again like she did the other night, with menus and a knowing twinkle in her eye again, so she tucks the phone into her pocket.

“Sorry, Newport. I’ve got to run. Thanks for the coffee.”

He nods, and slides the book back towards Emma with a smile. “Anytime, Swan. I’ll see you tomorrow at the museum with your lad. Perhaps we can convince him I’m not a hook handed pirate when we’re there.”

Despite herself, Emma grins, and a flutter of something she hasn’t felt in a long time appears in her chest. “That would be great. See you then, Wes.”

<> 

After Emma departs Granny’s, Newport only stays a bit longer to have an early lunch. When he’s finished the burger and fires, the rest of the afternoon stretches out before him and, even though it’s Saturday, he decides to head into work for a few hours. Regina has jokingly called him a workaholic in the past, and Newport’s never denied it before. There’s something about the routine that calls to him, as if he can’t quite help it. It must be in his personality to latch heavily onto one particular vice because, if he’s being honest, ever since he’d become treasurer, he certainly has swapped a more destructive version of - _aholic_ for this one.

But today, he’s not feeling the usual urge to rush into work and, despite the chill to the air, Wes walks all the way to town hall, if only to eat up some more time. He even pauses along the way, taking his time and watching the fishermen return to the harbour from their morning trips out to sea. A few of them see him standing along the boardwalk and wave as they move passed him in the water, and it’s only when the harbour of Storybrooke is quiet again that Newport continues his way to work.

The town hall is empty when he arrives. Usually the quiet atmosphere is just what he likes, but today he finds the silence irritable and distracting. He switches from project to project, trying to get into a rhythm, but it’s a fruitless task and he only ends up frustrated and no further ahead than when he started. He’s never quite cared before about the monotony of his work, the constant paperwork and filing that he needs to do, but today it wears on him.

As a result, Newport’s thoughts being to wander, and, of their own accord, turn to Henry’s storybook and his conversation with Emma about it. He agrees with Emma that it’s a coping mechanism, but the thought of _why_ Henry had to create a fantastical alternative reality in the first place saddens him. He’d known Henry was in therapy but hadn’t known that the boy was so unhappy that it had led to this.

He feels empathy for the boy; his own childhood hadn’t been pleasant either and he wouldn’t wish any remotely similar sadness onto anyone. Thinking on that, though, when he tries to think of _why_ exactly it was so bad, for some strange reason, he finds he cannot quite remember. It is as if there is a gaping hole where those memories should be and he’s left with just an ache of unhappiness and longing that won’t leave him.

Strange, he thinks vaguely. He must be really getting old to be forgetting things like that.

A bit disconcerted, Wes tries to bury himself into his work. He brews himself a whole pot of coffee, and even though it’s the low-quality stuff Regina insists on buying, the caffeine helps focus his mind and he’s actually able to make some progress on his current projects in the next few hours.

The sky is darkening, his stomach growling, by the time he calls it quits. The air is colder on the way home, and his step is brisker, as he’d forgotten a coat and the evening chill cuts through his thin jacket like icy knives. By the time he’s trotted down the street to his apartment, the sun has been down for twenty minutes already, leaving behind a spectacular sunset that paints the sky purple and pink, its fading light just managing to sneak in to the apartment as he lets himself in.

He takes his coat and shoes off, depositing them near the front door for tomorrow morning, and then moves further into the small apartment. It may be small and cramped in here, but it’s home. A bathroom in the far corner, a crammed kitchen just beside it, and a tiny living room in front, with a staircase just near the door that leads up to the loft where his bed is. He flips on the light switch, illuminating the whole place, and as he makes his way into the kitchen for a glass of water, he pauses, attention caught by the large painting hanging on the opposite wall.

He’s had it for a very long time and avoids looking it as often as he can. It brings nothing but pain and grief at the memory of whose hand had drawn it, and Wes has enough trouble keeping the thoughts away without a physical reminder of it. But, for all that’s worth, he’s never had the heart to take the painting down, content to have the knowledge that even though he tries his hardest to forget it, there is still something of _her_ that exists in this world.

But, for the first time in a long time, the painting spikes his interest, and he takes a couple steps closer until he is standing right in front of it, gazing up.

The painting is of a massive ship moored at a dock, drawn in black ink with elegant lines and brushstrokes, and until today, he’s never given it much thought about the design of the ship before, but now he stops in his tracks at the sight of it. He had looked closely at the image in Henry’s storybook earlier, feeling like there was something so desperately familiar about it, and now, looking at the painting on his wall is like looking at a re-creation of the one in the book. It has the same banding around the hull of the ship that the one in the book had had, the same set up of the deck with the raised helm and small bell hanging just above the entrance to the lower decks.

He stares, dumbfounded.

 _What_?

How on earth could they be the same ship, drawn by a long dead hand and then in a child’s storybook?

He shakes his head. He’s being ridiculous; it isn’t uncommon that drawings of ships would look similar, he tells himself, because, really, there can’t be that many different designs for big galleon style ships out there. The artist of his painting probably just used the same reference photo; after all, he knew the artist of this painting, and knows she never would have seen anything like this magnificent ship in real life.

Nothing but a coincidence, Wes is sure.

But with the uneasy thoughts swirling around his mind, faint memories of an event he can’t seem to quite remember clearly, Wes finds himself unsettled for the rest of the night. It’s as if there’s something lurking at the back of his mind, straining to be remembered, but no matter how much he strains his mind to remember what it is, it remains elusive, a forgotten whisper of something very important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! let me know your thoughts.


	7. Chapter Seven

Hot, scorching sunlight beats down on Wes as he stands on creaking oak boards of a ship, squinting against the bright reflection of the sunlight off the glimmering blue ocean all around him. He feels abruptly out of place; the last thing he remembers was closing his eyes in the darkness of his room. And yet, here he is, standing here, on the moored ship, the waves lapping gently against the hull, rocking it back and forth like a mother rocking her child.

He glances around him, trying to get a sense of his bearings. He’s on a ship, half-leaning against the base of the tall mast, and as he shifts slightly, he winces at the sharp pain radiating down his right side. A dark-haired woman standing in front of him, long curls cascading down around her shoulders, her patterned skirt tight around her waist, glances back over to him with concerned eyes.

As she shifts, he catches sight of a man, if he could even be called that, opposite her. Wes recoils – he is more gremlin than human, skin scaly, eyes yellow and demonic. The monster is leering at the woman, a cold hatred in his expression, but she isn’t intimidated, her stance confident and cool.

Wes blinks hard several times, trying to focus on what is happening around him. The pair are exchanging a heated lobby of words, biting and cold back and forth, and he focuses in just as the monster hisses, “And why were you so miserable?”

The woman’s face twists into a snarl, and she spits, “Because I _never_ loved you.”

The monster’s face contorts in fury, a flash of pure evil in his eyes. He lunges forward, plunging his hand directly into the woman’s chest, sending her stumbling backwards with a yelp of pain, and a scream rips free from him.

_No, Milah!_

Wes darts forward, desperate to reach her, but the monster flicks his wrist as if he’s nothing more than an irritating gnat and he is thrown back, flying through the air and striking the large mast behind him. His head cracks painfully against the wood, making him see stars. As he blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision, the rigging swoops down under the monster’s control, strapping him tightly against the mast and holding him in place.

He thrashes against the ropes as the monster withdraws his hand from the woman’s chest a bright red and pulsating orb in his hand. At the sight of it, of her _heart_ in the monster’s hand, he screams out again, and finally rips himself free, ropes and fastening hooks falling hard onto the deck of the ship, clattering loudly away.

He is at her side as she begins to crumble, hands blindly reaching out for him. He catches her, lowering her slowly to the deck of the ship as her bright jade eyes begin to fade, a hand reaching out to caress his cheek, her fingers warm against his cold, wind-burnt cheek.

“I love you,” she whispers.

The monster’s face twists in anger at that, and his fingers tighten around her heart, crushing it between his fingers. She gasps once in pain, but then her body goes limp in his grip and she is gone, gone as quickly as the dust from her heart scattering in the sea breeze.

_No, no, no, no –_

He hears himself murmuring denials over and over again as he lays her down on the deck, but there is nothing he can do. Nothing to save her, nothing to change what has just happened, nothing but _avenge_ her.

“You may be more powerful now, demon, but you're no less a coward!” he shouts as he rises, rage magnifying and mounting with each moment, a roil like a storm at sea rushing over him, making him shake and vibrate with pure hatred and rage.

The monster doesn’t react, dust still escaping his fingers as he shakes his hand airily. He takes a step closer, his eyes glittering, and he holds his hand out.

“I’ll have what I came for now.”

“You’ll have to kill me first,” he snarls, and the monster smirks, his lips twisting in a cruel imitation of a smile.  

“Ah, ah. I’m afraid that’s not in the cards for you, sonny boy.”

In a swift motion, so quickly there’s no time to move away or cry out, the monster draws a sword from his belt, and, with a bright flash of searing silver metal, strikes out at his hand.

The pain is instantaneous, white hot and torturous, each millisecond that the blade slices through the flesh, muscle, and bone of his left wrist more excruciating than the last. He drops to his knees, a scream of agony ripping from his mouth as he clutches at his hand, blood pouring through his other fingers, pooling around where he crouches, a sea of crimson and pain, a hot, swirling whirlpool of fury and rage and _revenge_ –

<> 

Wes starts awake from the dream as suddenly as he’d fallen into it, kicking and throwing the covers away from himself, the scream from his nightmare echoing around him. He is covered in a cold sweat, his entire body trembling. The clock on his bedside declares it to be 2:42 a.m., the bedroom still cloaked in darkness around him, and he relaxes slightly back against his pillows.

Ah, a dream.

Already the memories of the dream, so vivid and realistic, are fading as his mind slowly returns to reality. He grimaces, rubbing at the stumped end of his left arm, over the scars. The phantom pains from the loss of his hand have long since faded, but the pain he felt in his dream was so intense it feels as if it has just happened all over again.

There is pain in his right side too, a lingering echo from the dream. He runs his hand along his side, under his shirt, massaging the sore muscle. To his surprise there is a thin, raised bit of scar tissue that he has never noticed before. His fingers pause over it, hesitant and confused, but then he pulls away, roughly tugging his shirt down. A scar he doesn’t remember is nothing to worry about; he had a rough childhood, it’s not uncommon for him to discover some new scar he never noticed before.

But as soon as he thinks that, he realizes he can’t really remember much about his youth at all. There are blurs and images that seem true – huddling under the covers during a thunderstorm, working a dead-end job that left his hands rough and bruised, a tough adoptive father with an iron fist. But there is an emptiness to the memories, a nagging feeling that what little he does remember isn’t quite right.

He shakes his head, leaning down to gather the scattered bedcovers. He’s working too much. He shouldn’t have gone into the office today, especially not after the incident at the market. He’s had too much work, too much stress, and not near enough sleep.

He scrubs at his eyes, his head hitting the pillow hard as he falls back horizontally. Blinking up at the dark ceiling several times, his mind returning to the faint memories of the dream that still remain. It had felt so real, the rough wooden planks beneath his feet, the warm sun on his face, the woman standing in front of him with her dark curls and warm eyes.

It’s been a while since he dreamt of her, even though there’s a thought of her every day, a pained clench of his heart when he passes her drawings that litter his apartment or when he sees the tattoo on his arm. His dreams are usually restricted to the night she died, all those years ago now, and he shakes his head, rolling over in bed. Henry’s story about pirates have clearly gotten to him, twisting her death and his memories of it to fit into his elaborate story of Wes’s real past. Because that’s all it is, after all – a story.

<> 

Emma jogs up the path to the Mayor’s house at quarter to ten the following morning. She reaches out to knock, but the door cracks open before she has the chance, Henry poking his head out.

“Is Mr. Newport with you?” he whispers.

“No,” Emma replies, a bit amused at Henry’s wide-eyed expression. “He said he’ll meet us there.” Then, she frowns, wondering if he’s changed his mind about inviting the treasurer along. “Why do you ask?”

“Just making sure.”

He opens the door enough for Emma to step into the large foyer, and she obliges, though sends Henry another curious glance.

“Why’d you even invite him along? I thought you didn’t like him.”

Henry sends a quick, panicked look to the closed door that leads to the kitchen, but it is still firmly closed, and then he turns back to her. “I don’t,” he says, voice hushed. “But this is for Operation Cobra.”

Emma blinks back at him. “What?”

“I’m trying to make him remember, Emma,” Henry says, as if it’s obvious. “If anything should trigger his memories, seeing his ship should.”

Emma closes her eyes briefly, biting back her rebuff. _All right, I’ll play along._

“I thought you said Captain Hook was a villain,” she says, her own voice a whisper now. “Wouldn’t it be bad if he remembered?”

“Maybe, but he’s the closest we’ve come so far, and if he really does remember, you’ll just have to arrest him so he can’t do any harm until we figure out a way for you to break the curse on everyone else too.”

Emma can just imagine filling out the arrest report. NAME: CAPTAIN HOOK. CRIME: PIRACY AND GENERAL VILLAINY. SUGGESTED HOLDING TIME: UNTIL THE EVIL QUEEN’S CURSE BREAKS.

As if summoned by Emma’s thoughts, the kitchen door opens then to reveal Regina, a glare on her face and she sniffs when she sees Emma, standing in her pristine foyer with Henry.

“Ah, you’re here, Miss Swan. Henry told me you want to take him to the Maritime Museum?”

Emma nods, and prays Regina is in a good enough mood this morning to actually let her. “He mentioned he had lots of fun there on his field trip, and I thought he’d like to see some of the exhibits again.”

A perfect eyebrow raises, and Regina regards her coldly. “Museums don’t seem like your kind of place, Miss Swan. They’re _cultured_.”

Emma ignores the jab, though her hand curls into a fist at her side. “I’m always up for museums,” she says tightly. “Especially if Henry wants to go.”

Regina is unimpressed, and Henry quickly pipes up, “Please? I really want to see the museum again before I get too busy at school. This weekend is perfect. _Please_ , Mom?”

Maybe it’s Henry use of _Mom_ in front of Emma that softens the cold mayor, because a small sigh escapes her lips and she smiles at Henry.

“Fine. I suppose it is educational after all.”

Henry nods eagerly and even wraps his arms around Regina in a hug. “Thanks! See you later!”

And before Regina gets a chance to change her mind, Henry has released Regina and is grabbing Emma and pulling her out the door, slamming the front door shut behind them.

Once they're in the car, Henry spots the storybook that Emma had brought back for him from the diner and he excitedly pulls it towards him.

“Okay,” he says seriously, and when Emma glances over to him, she sees that he’s opened the book again to the page where the man – _Captain Hook_ – stands at the helm of the ship. “The museum opens at 10, but the outside part – where the ship is – doesn’t open till 11. So, we’ve got lots of time to look through the stuff in the museum before going out. I didn’t recognize any of it from the book, but I was also trying to finish my worksheet, so I could have missed something. Anything there could be a trigger for Mr. Newport to remember too.”

Emma nods along as Henry lays out his plan for the day, which just mostly involves a lot of subtly quizzing Newport about anything that catches his interest, and when Emma pulls the bug to a stop at the museum, she is sure she’s heard the plan about twelve times by now.

Newport’s car isn’t in the parking lot, but the day is warm and bright, and she assumes he’s walking instead of driving. The instant the thought crosses her mind, Emma comes to a dead stop; the thought that she would just assume something already about this man she’s only really known for a couple weeks freaks Emma right the hell out.

“Emma?” Henry calls, giving her a curious look, and she shakes herself. She has enough to deal with today, mainly trying to not let Henry offend Newport with his Captain Hook talk, let alone dwell on whatever it means that she’s already easily predicting Newport’s preferences.

“Sorry, kid, coming.”

As she predicted, beside the entrance to the museum, leaning up against the old wooden building, is Newport. He’s dressed more casually today, like he was at the farmer’s market, in a grey sweater and dark pants, and he’s holding a coffee tray, three styrofoam cups with _Granny’s_ written across them. He grins at them as they approach, waving his gloved prosthetic hand in greeting.

 “Hi!” Henry shouts back, bounding up to him. “I’m glad you came!”

“Of course, I said I would,” Newport replies, and he taps one of the cups with his prosthetic hand. “A hot chocolate for you, Henry.” He accepts it eagerly, and Newport holds out the tray to Emma too. “And a coffee for you, Swan. Two cream, two sugar.”

His smile is warm, but it makes Emma freeze; she’s not the only one easily able to predict the other’s preferences it seems.

“Oh, uh, thanks,” she says, her voice coming out cooler than she intended, and she plucks the cup from the tray. His smile falters, and Emma turns away, gripping the coffee tightly as she focuses on Henry. “Let’s go, kid.”

There are a few other people in the museum already, browsing and paying them no attention. Emma sticks close to Henry through the first exhibit, which is focused on lighthouses around Storybrooke. There are old photographs of the lighthouses and the artifacts from them, including lanterns, lighthouse keepers’ journals, and old telescopes.

Newport follows them, nodding along with Henry as he chatters excitedly at the different cases of items and photographs. Henry drops the stray comment here and there about sailors and ships, followed by a furtive glance to Newport, but Newport’s expression remains neutral, interested but not overly so.

“A beacon of hope to many a lost sailor,” he murmurs, staring at the brass lantern, old and worn by time. He glances behind him, smiling at Emma, who doesn’t return his smile, still stuck on what it means that she knew he would walk here and he knows her coffee order.

He straightens, tugging at the collar of his sweater uncomfortably, and says, “Right. Shall we continue?”

Oblivious to the tension, Henry bounds excitedly after Newport into the next exhibit, Emma dragging her feet behind them. Henry half-drags Newport over to a glass case full of knotted ropes, and as Newport smiles in amusement at Henry’s explanation of the different types of knots, a jolt of guilt hits her hard in the gut.

 _Goddamn it._ She’s hardly spoken two words to him since they arrived, giving him the cold shoulder cause of her own issues, and yet here he is, as pleasant as can be, spending his Sunday with his boss’s kid at a fricking _museum_ of all places.

Goddamn it, Emma.

She swallows heavily, grinding her teeth together. She’s got her own issues, yeah, but that’s not Newport’s fault. It’s not his fault she gets freaked out by even the thought that he knows her well enough to get her coffee order right.

She trails behind Henry and Newport into the next room, hardly listening to Henry’s excited chatter about the room full of artifacts from early sailors and pioneers, and as he bounds ahead to one of the cases, she falls into step beside Newport.

“Thanks for coming with us,” Emma says, smiling as warmly as she can muster. “I know this probably isn’t the most ideal way to spend a Sunday afternoon, but –”

Newport shoots her a surprised look. “Oh, no, Emma. This is a marvelous way to spend a day.”

“Wandering around a museum with a kid you barely know?” she says, forcing her voice light and joking. “Your idea of marvelous is very different than mine.”

Instantly, Emma freezes, realizing that could be interpreted as her not enjoying being here with Henry, because, after all, he’s a kid she barely knows, and she quickly adds, “I – I don’t mean I’m not having a good time with Henry, I – you know, I was just saying –”

“I know, Swan.”

She glances to him, flustered, but finds him looking away, down at one of the cases with an old compass, his brow furrowed. Emma wasn’t looking too closely before, for said ‘issues’, but now that she’s looking at him, she notices dark circles under his eyes, his face paler than usual, his eyes slightly bloodshot.

“Are you okay, Wes? You look tired.” 

“I’m fine,” he replies quickly, looking away from the compass and clearing his throat at her expression. “I, uh – had trouble sleeping last night.” He lifts his coffee cup up as if in salute, forcing a smile onto his face that comes nowhere close to reaching his eyes. “But that’s what this is for.”

Emma frowns, unsatisfied with that answer, but Henry appears then, dragging them towards the next room. There’s an eager gleam to Henry’s eyes and Emma soon realizes why – this next room is the key attracting feature of the museum, at least, in Henry’s eyes.

Pirates.

The room is full of glass cases, each with a bright light shining down on the artifacts within, making them glow throughout the room. The smaller cases are full of gleaming silver chains, thick round gold coins and worn pieces of parchment, with paintings and portraits on the wall of famous (and infamous) pirates and their ships. A large case in the centre of the room is full of swords, each with different handles and curves to their blades, while the largest display in the centre of the room holds an actual cannon, aimed as if to shoot them as they enter the room.

Emma may not be _cultured_ as Regina put it, but she does know how to appreciate a good museum display, and this is one of the most fascinating rooms Emma has ever seen.

“Wow,” Newport says, echoing her thoughts, and Henry shoots Emma a triumphant look, and grabs onto his arm.

“Come look at this case, Mr. Newport!”

Henry drags Newport from case to case, watching him like a hawk as they move through the room. He’s practically bouncing on his heels, waiting for any indication that something will trigger his ‘cursed’ memories. But like at the previous cases, Newport’s interest remains neutral, positive but nothing extreme or reminiscent of someone ‘remembering’ a past life or whatever Henry thinks is going to happen.

At the fourth case, when they’re looking at the collection of swords, Newport clues into Henry’s game. Henry’s asking him about what sword _he_ would like to use if _he_ was a pirate or if he’d like another weapon, like a _hook_.

His voice is ever so innocent, but Newport raises an eyebrow at him, exchanging a quick look with Emma over Henry’s head. Emma feels another twinge in her stomach; not only is he spending the day with a kid he doesn’t really know, it just so happens to be a kid who thinks he’s the actual incarnation of a Disney villain in cahoots with his evil mother.

“Ah, I don’t know,” Newport says to Henry, his voice giving nothing away, looking back to the case of swords. He taps the lid, and continues, “This one here is, uh, sharp.”

Henry blinks, a flash of disappointment across his face. “Sharp? Is – is that it?” He lets out a hard sigh, but then steels himself, determination replacing his momentary disappointment. “Right. Okay, well, come look at this next case. There’s some stuff in here I think you’ll like.”

Henry leads them eagerly to more display cases, one after another, watching Newport carefully for any sign an item might mean something to him. They look at displays with old trunks, empty liquor bottles, ripped flags, dusty hats. Newport maintains a polite interest in the items as they go on, and it’s apparent Henry is becoming increasingly desperate and frustrated.

“Hey, kid,” Emma starts, deciding that it’s time she put an end to this. What was she thinking, allowing Henry to go on like this, dragging a man he actually thinks is a pirate through an exhibit of pirate artifacts? “I think – I think that we’ve been here long enough, what do you think? I bet Mr. Newport wants to see some of the pioneer stuff again, that was really cool, right, Wes?”

Henry speaks before Newport has a chance, shaking his head vigorously. “No, no! Come on, Mr. Newport, look at this stuff, this is the last case here –”

Newport sends Emma an apologetic shrug as Henry pulls him onwards, stopping him in front of a case full of old jewellery. It’s crowded with rows upon rows of rings and necklaces and bracelets. Newport dutifully looks down at the case, and though he’s appeared politely interested before, this time a strange expression crosses his face.

Henry sends Emma a triumphant look, and asks, “Anything – anything stand out to you?”

Newport doesn’t reply immediately. His gaze is lingering on a thick banded silver ring, a single glittering garnet set between two raised flower emblems, but when he straightens, his expression is impassive and cool again.

“Uh, no. It’s all very interesting.”

Henry regards him silently for a long moment, his brow scrunched in through, before he nods once, a trace of grin appearing on his lips. “Alright. That’s okay. Well, that’s the last exhibit here, but the outside part is gonna open soon, so we have to go see that. It’s my favourite part, I bet you’ll love it too.”

He casts a significant look to Emma at that, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes. The outside portion of the museum is where they keep the pirate ship that ‘apparently’ belonged to Newport.

Since they still have a few minutes to wait, Newport excuses himself to wander around the exhibit again, and he’s hardly five feet away from them before Henry turns to her, tugging on her arm excitedly.

“Did you see that, Emma? His reaction to the ring? I knew that would, I saw that ring in the book – but, it wasn’t enough, that’s okay – wait till he sees the ship outside!”

Emma grits her teeth, trying to bite her tongue and failing. “Henry –”

He ignores her, continuing, with a furtive glance over to Newport, “I need to look at my book again before we go outside to check if there’s anything else here we need to look at. Distract him, okay?”

“Henry,” Emma says again, warningly, but he’s already scampering away, off to a bench near the archway to the next room. He looks back to her significantly, jerking his head towards Newport, and Emma mutters a swear, finally moving over to join Newport.

He’s back at one of the cases, peering down at the handful of ripped flags in this one. He turns at her presence, his eyes finding Henry sitting down a few feet away.

“Everything alright, Swan?”

“Yeah, it’s all good. Listen, sorry about all this.” She glances behind her, but Henry’s head is buried in his book, and she lowers her voice even further as she says, “Henry – he really believes this stuff. But hopefully if he sees that you don’t suddenly remember that you’re actually a pirate, it might – well, it might do him some good.”

Newport nods, and his smile is genuine, if not a little sad. “I hope so too.”

She glances back to Henry, but his head is still buried in his book, and she sighs. “Well, I’ve been instructed to distract you until we can go outside – want to have another look around?”

Henry’s dragged them through most of the cases already, but as they make a loop around the room, Newport notices one they didn’t look at before. It features a bright, golden instrument, emblazoned with an elaborate chart on one side, some if it pinpointed with delicate clear crystals with adjoining sharp white lines.

“Cool,” Emma says, thinking it looks like a strange combination of a toy boat and a telescope. “What the hell is it?”

“It’s a sextant,” Newport replies, and Emma glances to him, eyes narrowing. For a wild moment, her mind falls down the rabbit hole of _how the hell could he know that_ until she notices the card in front of the golden object: _golden sextant – a sailor’s tool for navigation._

Oh. Of course.

“Well, it’s certainly bejewelled enough to belong to a pirate,” Emma comments, a bit wryly, but Newport doesn’t react to her comment.

He’s looking at the sextant with a furrowed brow, a slight twist to his lips. His frown deepens as he peers closer at the sextant, hand coming to rest on the glass separating it from them. For a moment, his eyes narrow in confusion, but then he removes his hand and shrugs, as if shaking off a chill.

Emma herself feels goosebumps rising on the back of her neck and her arms, unexpectedly taken aback by his reaction.

“You okay, Wes?”

“Hmm?” he replies, tearing his gaze away from the sextant. “Oh, yes, I’m fine.”

Henry bounds back up to them, then, his storybook clutched tightly in his arms, and he grins widely. “Come on, the outside part is open now! Let’s go!”

Newport’s reaction to the sextant lurks in Emma’s mind as they follow Henry towards the harbour door, but as they exit the museum and out onto the adjoining dock, the thought disappears at the sight of a massive pirate ship right in front of her.

“Holy crap.”

Even Emma has to admit, this ship does look a great deal like the book’s drawing. Sleek brown timbers, with bright yellows, reds, and blues painted along the hull that stand a vibrant contrast to the pure white keel. The ship has white sails too, but they’re still tied up in bunches around the masts, and countless ropes and weights hang in the free air. Even without the huge white sails unfurled, it still looks majestic and the sight of it there, in little Storybrooke’s harbour, takes her breath away.

She’s not the only one; Newport is staring up at the ship, eyes wide in astonishment.

“Pretty cool, huh?”

Henry’s words snap them both out of it, a knowing grin on his face. Emma shoots him a look, and Newport quickly schools his features into a neutral, only vaguely interested expression.

“Aye,” he says, but he’s not so easily able to mask his voice – it’s strained, uncomfortable, and he clears his throat quickly. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“Really?” Henry says at once, almost daring him to deny it. “You’ve never seen it before?”

Newport glances over to Henry, and his expression is sad, almost disappointed, as if some part of him was hoping for a different answer, and he shakes his head.

“No, never.”

Though he’s kept up a good amount of determination up until now, through all the exhibits of Newport’s muted responses, at the reaction to the ship, Henry deflates, all his excitement and hope draining out of him in an instant.

“Oh. I thought – oh.”

Newport and Emma exchange a look, Newport looking uncomfortable and apologetic. Emma bends down so she can see Henry eye-to-eye, swallowing back her own discomfort at not knowing what to say to him. She was hoping for this outcome, in a twisted way, that he’d see Newport doesn’t know anything, but she hates the look it has created on Henry’s face. It may all be a fantasy, but Henry believes it, and was sincerely hoping this would reveal that his life isn’t as he thought it was. And after all, Emma knows exactly how it feels to wish your reality was different than it truly is.

“Want to keep looking, Henry?” she asks, as gently as she can. “It looks like we can go onto the ship.”

He shakes his head, shifting his storybook so he’s hugging it tighter against his chest, turning away from the ship. “No. If this didn’t work … the curse is stronger than I thought.” He pauses, and then shrugs, looking sad and lost. “I’m tired. Can we go home now?”

“Yeah,” Emma replies, and she grips his shoulder tightly in what she hopes is comforting. “Of course.”

She steers Henry back inside, Newport a few steps behind them, after casting one final look back towards the ship. They navigate their way through the exhibits again, and when they’re back outside at the front of the museum, Emma turns to Newport before heading to her car. “Do you want a ride home?”

He doesn’t answer, frowning to himself. He’s been quiet since they left the ship and it takes Emma saying his name twice before he jolts, as if shaking himself as if out of a trance.

“Sorry, love. My thoughts are out to sea. What did you say?”

“Do you want a ride back to your place? It’s on the way to Regina’s.”

He shakes his head slowly, looking vaguely out behind her, to the lapping waters of the harbour, to the tall masts of the pirate ship still visible over the building. “No, thank you, love. I – I think I’d like a walk along the water.”

Emma frowns, slight goosebumps raising on her neck again. But he’s turning to Henry, bending down to be at his level.

 “Goodbye, Henry. Thank you for inviting me today. I had a lovely time.”  

Henry nods, unconvinced, saying “Bye, Mr. Newport” as he turns towards the car.  

Newport and Emma exchange another look, before Emma waves goodbye and turns to follow Henry. She glances back before getting into the car; Newport is where she left him, staring out at the harbour.

Emma shakes her head, pushing aside her own lingering questions for now, and gets into the car. Henry is quiet the entire ride back to Regina’s house, staring out the window with a frown.

It makes Emma’s heart twinge. Though she was hoping Henry would see that Newport is a normal guy, not some storybook pirate, the fact that this is hurting Henry so much – well, Emma finds herself almost wishing there had been some truth to the story, if only not to see the sad expression on her kid’s face.

But that’s the thing about Henry believing these stories, Emma reasons, her resolve turning to steel. It’s only going to keep hurting him – and she needs to get him back to reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! Let me know your thoughts.


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